"LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

U N I VLRS  ITY 
Of  ILLINOIS 

From  the  Library  of 
Dr.  R.  E.  Hieronymus 
1942 


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“ Fair  Lake,  embossed  in  the  woods  and  hills.” 


Selections 


JOHN  G. 
WHITTIER 


rti 

tern 

m 


m 


H.  M.  CALDWELL  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  BOSTON  ^ 


C>j 


I ID 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 

PAGE 


Mogg  Megone 37 

The  Bridal  of  Pennacook 3 


LEGENDARY. 


Cassandra  Southwick 

Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis.  . . . 

Pentucket  

St.  John 

The  Exiles 

The  Familist’s  Hymn 

The  Fountain 

The  Merrimack 

The  New  Wife  and  the  Old  . . . . 

The  Norsemen 


95 

107 

117 

hi 

129 

120 

124 

87 

139 

9i 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

A 

Address,  written  for  the  Opening  of 

“Pennsylvania  Hall”  ....  200 

Clerical  Oppressors 174 


IV 


CONTENTS . 


PAGE 

VOICES  OF  FREEDOM  — continued. 

Lines,  from  a Letter  to  a Young  Cleri- 
cal FRIEND  265 

Lines,  suggested  by  a Visit  to  the  City 
of  Washington  in  the  12th  Month 

of  1845 258 

Lines,  written  for  the  Anniversary 
Celebration  of  the  “First  of 
August,”  at  Milton,  1846  ....  194 

Lines  written  for  the  Meeting  of  the 
Anti-Slavery  Society  at  Chatham 
Street  Chapel,  N.  Y.,  1834  . . . 191 

Lines,  written  for  the  Celebration  of 
the  Third  Anniversary  of  British 

Emancipation,  1837 193 

Lines,  written  on  Reading  Gov.  Rit- 

ner’s  Message  of  1836 182 

Lines,  written  on  Reading  the  Famous 
“Pastoral  Letter”  of  the  Mass. 
General  Association,  1837  . . . 186 

Lines,  written  in  the  Book  of  a Friend,  269 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia 229 

New  Hampshire 220 

Song  of  the  Free 169 

Stanzas.  Our  Countrymen  in  Chains  . 159 

Stanzas  for  the  Times — 1844  . . . 240 

Stanzas  for  the  Times 179 

Texas.  Voice  of  New  England  . . . 248 

The  Branded  Hand 244 

The  Christian  Slave 176 


CONTENTS. 


V 


PAGE 

VOICES  OF  FREEDOM  — continued. 

The  Farewell  of  a Virginia  Slave 
Mother  to  her  Daughters,  sold 
into  Southern  Bondage  ....  197 

The  Hunters  of  Men 171 

The  Moral  Warfare . 206 

The  New  Year:  Addressed  to  the 
Patrons  of  the  Pennsylvania  Free- 
man   222 

The  Pine  Tree 256 

The  Relic 236 

The  Response  207 

The  Slave  Ships 154 

The  World’s  Convention  of  the  Friends 
of  Emancipation,  held  in  London 

in  1840 21 1 

The  Yankee  Girl .164 

Toussaint  L’Ouverture 145 

To  Faneuil  Hall 252 

To  Massachusetts.  Written  during 
the  Pending  of  the  Texas  Ques- 
tion   . . 254 

To  W.  L.  Garrison . 167 

Yorktown 266 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

A Dream  of  Summer 371 

Barclay  of  Ury ...387 

Chalkley  Hall 364 

Democracy  359 


PAGE 

MISCELLANEOUS  — continued. 

Extract  from  “A  New  England  Le- 
gend ” 408 

Ezekiel.  Chap,  xxxiii.  30-33  ....  281 

Follen.  On  Reading  his  Essay  on  the 

“Future  State” 325 

Forgiveness . . . 386 

Hampton  Beach 410 

Hymns.  From  the  French  of  Lamar- 
tine   297 

Leggett’s  Monument 380 

Lines,  accompanying  Manuscripts  pre- 
sented to  a Friend 415 

Lines,  written  on  Reading  Several 
Pamphlets  ' published  by  Clergy- 
men AGAINST  THE  ABOLITION  OF  THE 

Gallows 342 

Lines,  written  on  Hearing  of  the  Death 

of  Silas  Wright,  of  New  York  . . 414 

My  Soul  and  I 313 

Palestine 277 

Randolph  of  Roanoke 354 

Raphael 420 

The  Album 399 

The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista  ....  381 

The  Angel  of  Patience.  A Free  Para- 
phrase of  the  German  ....  324 

The  Call  of  the  Christian  ....  310 

The  Cities  of  the  Plain 289 

The  Crucifixion 292 


CONTENTS.  vii 

PAGK 

MISCELLANEOUS  — continued . 

The  Cypress  Tree  of  Ceylon  ....  368 

The  Demon  of  the  Study 400 

The  Female  Martyr 303 

The  Frost  Spirit 306 

The  Human  Sacrifice 347 

The  Prisoner  for  Debt 338 

The  Pumpkin 405 

The  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time  . . 333 

The  Reformer 334 

The  Reward 418 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem 294 

The  Vaudois  Teacher 308 

The  Wife  of  Manoah  to  her  Husband,  285 

To  a Friend,  on  her  Return  from 

Europe 321 

To  Delaware  . . 395 

To  John  Pierpont 367 

To  Ronge 362 

To  the  Reformers  of  England  . . . 330 

To  , with  a Copy  of  Woolman’s 

Journal 373 

What  the  Voice  said 392 

Worship 396 

MEMORIALS. 

A Lament 439 

Channing 429 

Daniel  Neall 447 

Daniel  Wheeler 441 


CONTENTS . 


viii 

PAGE 

MEMORIALS  — continued. 

Gone 450 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  Oliver  Torrey, 
Secretary  of  the  Boston  Young 
Men’s  Anti-Slavery  Society  . . . 436 

Lucy  Hooper 425 

To  my  Friend  on  the  Death  of  his 

Sister 448 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles  B.  Storrs, 

Late  President  of  the  Western 
Reserve  College 433 

APPENDIX. 

The  Curse  of  the  Charter-Breakers  . 455 

The  Slaves  of  Martinique  .....  459 

The  Crisis 465 

The  Knight  of  St.  John 471 

The  Holy  Land . 474 


PROEM. 


I love  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser’s  golden  days, 
Arcadian  Sidney’s  silvery  phrase, 

Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morn- 
ing dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I try; 

I feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 
In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 

And  drink  with  glad  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the 
sky. 

The  rigor  of  a frozen  clime, 

The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  £>f  one  whose  rhyme 
Beat  often  Labor’s  hurried  time. 

Or  Duty’s  rugged  march  through  storm  and 
strife,  are  here. 


2 


PROEM. 


Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 

No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace 
Or  softer  shades  of  Nature’s  face, 

I view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 

Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 
The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind ; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 
Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 

A more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown ; 

A hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 

As  if  my  brother’s  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

Oh  Freedom!  if  to  me  belong 
Nor  mighty  Milton’s  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvel’s  wit  and  graceful  song, 

Still  with  a love  as  deep  and  strong 
As  theirs,  I lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy 
shrine. 


Amesbury,  nth  mo.,  1847. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


We  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 
Through  the  rough  northern  country. 1 We  had 
seen 

The  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple  cloud, 

Like  a new  heaven,  shine  upward  from  the  lake 
Of  Winnepiseogee  ; and  had  felt 
The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy  isles 
Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to  the  lips 
Of  the  bright  waters.  We  had  checked  our 
steeds, 

Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  mountain  wall 
Is  piled  to  heaven ; and,  through  the  narrow  rift 
Of  the  vast  rocks,  against  whose  rugged  feet 
Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual  roar, 
Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the  wind 
Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting  moan 
Of  forests  and  of  far-off  water-falls, 

We  had  looked  upward  where  the  summer  sky, 
Tasselled  with  clouds  light-woven  by  the  sun, 
Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abutting  crags 

1 See  Notes  at  end  of  book. 


3 


4 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


O’er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 
Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.  We  had  passed 
The  high  source  of  the  Saco ; and,  bewildered 
In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystals  Hills 
Had  heard  above  us,  like  a voice  in  the  cloud, 
The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding;  and  atop 
Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the  mountains 
Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with  wood,  and 
thick 

As  meadow  mole  hills  — the  far  sea  of  Casco, 

A white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the  east ; 

Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods  and  hills  ; 
Moosehillock’s  mountain  range,  and  Kearsarge 
Lifting  his  Titan  forehead  to  the  sun  ! 

And  we  had  rested  underneath  the  oaks 
Shadowing  the  bank,  whose  grassy  spires  are 
shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 
Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.  We  had  tracked 
The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 
By  beechen  shadows,  whitening  down  its  rocks. 
Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 

From  waving  rye-fields  sending  up  the  gleam 
Of  sunlit  waters.  We  had  seen  the  moon 
Rising  behind  Umbagog’s  eastern  pines 
Like  a great  Indian  camp-fire ; and  its  beams 
At  midnight  spanning  with  a bridge  of  silver 
The  Merj-imac  by  Uncanoonuc’s  falls. 


BRIDAL  OF  PENN  A CO  OK. 


s 


There  were  five  souls  of  us  whom  travel’s  chance 
Had  thrown  together  in  these  wild  north  hills  : — 
A city  lawyer,  for  a month  escaping 
From  his  dull  office,  where  the  weary  eye 
Saw  only  hot  brick  walls  and  close  thronged 
streets  — 

Briefless  as  yet,  but  with  an  eye  to  see 
Life’s  sunniest  side,  and  with  a heart  to  take 
Its  chances  all  as  God-sends ; and  his  brother, 
Pale  from  long  pulpit  studies,  yet  retaining 
The  warmth  and  freshness  of  a genial  heart, 
Whose  mirror  of  the  beautiful  and  true, 

In  Man  and  Nature,  was  as  yet  undimmed 
By  dust  of  theologic  strife,  or  breath 
Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore ; 

Like  a clear  crystal  calm  of  water,  taking 
The  hue  and  image  of  o’erleaning  flowers, 

Sweet  human  faces,  white  clouds  of  the  noon, 
Slant  starlight  glimpses  through  the  dewy 
leaves, 

And  tenderest  moonrise.  ’Twas,  in  truth,  a 
study, 

To  mark  his  spirit,  alternating  between 
A decent  and  professional  gravity 
And  an  irreverent  mirthfulness,  which  often 
Laughed  in  the  face  of  his  divinity, 

Plucked  off  the  sacred  ephod,  quite  unshrined 

The  oracle,  and  for  the  pattern  priest 

Left  us  the  man.  A shrewd,  sagacious  merchant. 


6 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


To  whom  the  soiled  sheet  found  in  Crawford’s 
inn, 

Giving  the  latest  news  of  city  stocks 
And  sales  of  cotton  had  a deeper  meaning 
Than  the  great  presence  of  the  awful  mountains 
Glorified  by  the  sunset ; — and  his  daughter, 

A delicate  flower  on  whom  had  blown  too  long 
Those  evil  winds,  which,  sweeping  from  the  ice 
And  winnowing  the  fogs  of  Labrador, 

Shed  their  cold  blight  round  Massachusetts’  bay, 
With  the  same  breath  which  stirs  Spring’s  open- 
ing leaves 

And  lifts  her  half-formed  flower-bell  on  its  stem, 
Poisoning  our  sea-side  atmosphere. 


It  chanced 

That  as  we  turned  upon  our  homeward  way, 

A drear  north-eastern  storm  came  howling  up 
The  valley  of  the  Saco  ; and  that  girl 
Who  had  stood  with  us  upon  Mount  Washington, 
Her  brown  locks  ruffled  by  the  wind  which 
whirled 

In  gusts  around  its  sharp  cold  pinnacle, 

Who  had  joined  our  gay  trout-fishing  in  the 
streams 

Which  lave  that  giant’s  feet ; whose  laugh  was 
heard 

Like  a bird’s  carol  on  the  sunrise  breeze 
Which  swelled  our  sail  amidst  the  lake’s  green 
islands. 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


1 


Shrank  from  its  harsh,  chill  breath,  and  visibly 
drooped 

Like  a flower  in  the  frost.  So,  in  that  quiet  inn 
Which  looks  from  Conway  on  the  mountains 
piled 

Heavily  against  the  horizon  of  the  north, 

Like  summer  thunder-clouds,  we  made  our  home : 
And  while  the  mist  hung  over  dripping  hills, 
And  the  cold  wind-driven  rain-drops  all  day  long 
Beat  their  sad  music  upon  roof  and  pane, 

We  strove  to  cheer  our  gentle  invalid. 

The  lawyer  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm 
Went  angling  down  the  Saco,  and,  returning, 
Recounted  his  adventures  and  mishaps ; 

Gave  us  the  history  of  his  scaly  clients, 
Mingling  with  ludicrous  yet  apt  citations 
Of  barbarous  law  Latin,  passages 
From  Izaak  Walton’s  Angler,  sweet  and  fresh 
As  the  flower-skirted  streams  of  Staffordshire 
Where,  under  aged  trees,  the  south-west  wind 
Of  soft  June  mornings  fanned  the  thin,  white 
hair 

Of  the  sage  fisher.  And,  if  truth  be  told, 

Our  youthful  candidate  forsook  his  sermons, 

His  commentaries,  articles  and  creeds 
For  the  fair  page  of  human  loveliness  — 

The  missal  of  young  hearts,  whose  sacred  text 
Is  music,  its  illumining  sweet  smiles. 


a 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


He  sang  the  songs  she  loved ; and  in  his  low, 
Deep,  earnest  voice  recited  many  a page 
Of  poetry  — the  holiest,  tenderest  lines 
Of  the  sad  bard  of  Olney  — the  sweet  songs, 
Simple  and  beautiful  as  Truth  and  Nature, 

Of  him  whose  whitened  locks  on  Rydal  Mount 
Are  lifted  yet  by  morning  breezes  blowing 
From  the  green  hills,  immortal  in  his  lays. 

And  for  myself,  obedient  to  her  wish, 

I searched  our  landlord’s  proffered  library : 

A well-thumbed  Bunyan,  with  its  nice  wood 
pictures 

Of  scaly  fiends,  and  angels  not  unlike  them  — 
Watts’  unmelodious  psalms  — Astrology’s 
Last  home,  a musty  file  of  Almanacs, 

And  an  old  chronicle  of  border  wars 
And  Indian  history.  And,  as  I read 
A story  of  the  marriage  of  the  Chief 
Of  Saugus  to  the  dusky  Weetamoo, 

Daughter  of  Passaconaway,  who  dwelt 
In  the  old  time  upon  Merrimack, 

Our  fair  one,  in  the  playful  exercise 
Of  her  prerogative  — the  right  divine 
Of  youth  and  beauty,  — bade  us  versify 
The  legend,  and  with  ready  pencil  sketched 
Its  plan  and  outlines,  laughingly  assigning 
To  each  his  part,  and  barring  our  excuses 
With  absolute  will.  So,  like  the  cavaliers 
Whose  voices  still  are  heard  in  the  Romance 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


9 


Of  silver-tongued  Boccacio,  on  the  banks 
Of  Arno,  with  soft  tales  of  love  beguiling 
The  ear  of  languid  beauty,  plague-exiled 
From  stately  Florence,  we  rehearsed  our  rhymes 
To  their  fair  auditor,  and  shared  by  turns 
Her  kind  approval  and  her  playful  censure. 

It  may  be  that  these  fragments  owe  alone 
To  the  fair  setting  of  their  circumstances  — 

The  associations  of  time,  scene  and  audience  — 
Their  place  amid  the  pictures  which  fill  up 
The  chambers  of  my  memory.  Yet  I trust 
That  some,  who  sigh,  while  wandering  in 
thought, 

Pilgrims  of  Romance  o’er  the  olden  world, 

That  our  broad  land  — our  sea-like  lakes,  and 
mountains 

Piled  to  the  clouds,  — our  rivers  overhung 
By  forests  which  have  known  no  other  change 
For  ages,  than  the  budding  and  the  fall 
Of  leaves  — our  valleys  lovelier  than  those 
Which  the  old  poets  sang  of  — should  but  figure 
On  the  apocryphal  chart  of  speculation 
As  pastures,  wood-lots,  mill-sites,  with  the 
privileges, 

Rights  and  appurtenances,  which  make  up 
A Yankee  Paradise  — unsung,  unknown, 

To  beautiful  tradition  ; even  their  names, 

Whose  melody  yet  lingers  like  the  last 


10  BRIDAL  OF  PENN  A C 0 OK. 

Vibration  of  the  red  man’s  requiem, 

Exchanged  for  syllables  significant 

Of  cotton-mill  and  rail-car,  — will  look  kindly 

Upon  this  effort  to  call  up  the  ghost 

Of  our  dim  past,  and  listen  with  pleased  ear 

To  the  responses  of  the  questioned  Shade : 

I. — THE  MERRIMACK. 

Oh,  child  of  that  white-crested  mountain  whose 
springs 

Gush  forth  in  the  shade  of  the  cliff-eagle’s  wings, 

Down  whose  slopes  to  the  lowlands  thy  wild 
waters  shine, 

Leaping  gray  walls  of  rock,  flashing  through  the 
dwarf  pine. 

From  that  cloud-curtained  cradle  so  cold  and  so 
lone, 

From  the  arms  of  that  wintry-locked  mother  of 
stone, 

By  hills  hung  with  forests,  through  vales  wide 
and  free, 

Thy  mountain-born  brightness  glanced  down  to 
the  sea ! 

No  bridge  arched  thy  waters  save  that  where  the 
trees 

Stretched  their  long  arms  above  thee  and  kissed 
in  the  breeze : 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


II 


No  sound  save  the  lapse  of  the  waves  on  thy 
shores, 

The  plunging  of  otters,  the  light  dip  of  oars. 

Green-tufted,  oak-shaded,  by  Amoskeag’s  fall 
Thy  twin  Uncanoonucs  rose  stately  and  tall, 

Thy  Nashua  meadows  lay  green  and  unshorn, 
And  the  hills  of  Pentucket  were  tasselled  with 
corn. 

But  thy  Pennacook  valley  was  fairer  than  these, 
And  greener  its  grasses  and  taller  its  trees, 

Ere  the  sound  of  an  axe  in  the  forest  had  rung. 
Or  the  mower  his  scythe  in  the  meadows  had 
swung. 

In  their  sheltered  repose  looking  out  from  the 
wood 

The  bark-builded  wigwams  of  Pennacook  stood, 
There  glided  the  corn-dance  — the  Council  fire 
shone, 

And  against  the  red  war-post  the  hatchet  was 
thrown. 

There  the  old  smoked  in  silence  their  pipes,  and 
the  young 

To  the  pike  and  the  white  perch  their  baited 
lines  flung ; 


12 


BRIDAL  OF  PE N IV A CO  OK, 


There  the  boy  shaped  his  arrows,  and  there  the 
shy  maid 

Wove  her  many-hued  baskets  and  bright  wam- 
pum braid. 

Oh,  Stream  of  the  Mountains ! if  answer  of 
thine 

Could  rise  from  thy  waters  to  question  of  mine, 

Methinks  through  the  din  of  thy  thronged  banks 
a moan 

Of  sorrow  would  swell  for  the  days  which  have 
gone. 

Not  for  thee  the  dull  jar  of  the  loom  and  the 
wheel, 

The  gliding  of  shuttles,  the  ringing  of  steel ; 

But  that  old  voice  of  waters,  of  bird  and  of 
breeze, 

The  dip  of  the  wild-fowl,  the  rustling  of  trees ! 


II. — THE  BASHABA.2 

Lift  we  the  twilight  curtains  of  the  Past, 

And  turning  from  familiar  sight  and  sound 
Sadly  and  full  of  reverence  let  us  cast 

A glance  upon  Tradition’s  shadowy  ground, 
Led  by  the  few  pale  lights,  which  glimmering 
round, 

That  dim,  strange  land  of  Eld,  seem  dying  fast  [ 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


*3 


And  that  which  history  gives  not  to  the  eye, 
The  faded  coloring  of  Time’s  tapestry, 

Let  Fancy,  with  her  dream-dipped  brush  supply. 

Roof  of  bark  and  walls  of  pine, 

Through  whose  chinks  the  sunbeams  shine, 
Tracing  many  a golden  line 
On  the  ample  floor  within ; 

Where  upon  that  earth-floor  stark, 

Lay  the  gaudy  mats  of  bark, 

With  the  bear’s  hide,  rough  and  dark, 

And  the  red-deer’s  skin. 

Window-tracery,  small  and  slight, 

Woven  of  the  willow  wnite, 

Lent  a dimly-chequered  ligh:. 

And  the  night-stars  glimme.  ed  down, 
Where  the  a-  ^e-fire’s  hei'.vy  *moKe, 

Slowiy  through  an  opening  broke, 

In  the  low  roof,  ribbed  w1 ' ’ oak, 

Sheathed  with  hemlock  blown. 

Gloomed  behind  the  changeless  shade. 

By  the  solemn  pine-wood  made  ; 

Through  the  rugged  palisade, 

In  the  open  fore-ground  planted, 

Glimpses  came  of  rowers  rowing, 

Stir  of  leaves  and  wild-flowers  blowing, 
Steel-like  gleams  of  water  flowing, 

In  the  sunlight  slanted. 


14 


BRIDAL  OF  PE NN A CO  OK. 


Here  the  mighty  Bashaba 
Held  his  long-unquestioned  sway, 

From  the  White  Hills,  far  away, 

To  the  great  sea's  sounding  shore; 

Chief  of  chiefs,  his  regal  word 
All  the  river  Sachems  heard ; 

At  his  call  the  war-dance  stirred, 

Or  was  still  once  more. 

There  his  spoils  of  chase  and  war. 

Jaw  of  wolf  and  black  bear’s  paw, 

Panther’s  skin  and  eagle’s  claw, 

Lay  beside  his  axe  and  bow ; 

And,  adown  the  roof-pole  hung, 

Loosely  on  a snake-skin  strung, 

In  the  smoke  his  scalp-locks  swung 
Grimly  to  and  fro. 

Nightly  down  the  river  going, 

Swifter  was  the  hunter’s  rowing, 

When  he  saw  that  lodge-fire  glowing 
O’er  the  waters  still  and  red  ; 

And  the  squaw’s  dark  eye  burned  brighter. 
And  she  drew  her  blanket  tighter, 

As,  with  quicker  step  and  lighter, 

From  that  door  she  fled. 

For  that  chief  had  magic  skill, 

And  a Panisee’s  dark  will, 


BRIDAL  OF  PENN  A CO  OK*  15 

Over  powers  of  good  and  ill, 

Powers  which  bless  and  powers  which  ban  — 
Wizard  lord  of  Pennacook, 

Chiefs  upon  their  war-path  shook, 

When  they  met  the  steady  look 
Of  that  wise  dark  man. 

Tales  of  him  the  gray  squaw  told, 

When  the  winter  night-wind  cold 
Pierced  her  blanket’s  thickest  fold, 

And  the  fire  burned  low  and  small, 

Till  the  very  child  a-bed, 

Drew  its  bear-skin  over  head, 

Shrinking  from  the  pale  lights  shed 
On  the  trembling  wall. 

All  the  subtle  spirits  hiding 
Under  earth  or  wave,  abiding 
In  the  caverned  rock,  or  riding 
Misty  clouds  or  morning  breeze ; 

Every  dark  intelligence, 

Secret  soul,  and  influence 
Of  all  things  which  outward  sense 
Feels,  or  hears  or  sees,  — 

These  the  wizard’s  skill  confessed, 

At  his  bidding  banned  or  blessed, 

Stormful  woke  or  lulled  to  rest 
Wind  and  cloud,  and  fire  and  flood ; 


i6 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


Burned  for  him  the  drifted  snow, 

Bade  through  ice  fresh  lilies  blow. 

And  the  leaves  of  summer  grow  • 

Over  winter’s  wood  ! 

Not  untrue  that  tale  of  old  ! 

Now,  as  then,  the  wise  and  bold 
All  the  powers  of  Nature  hold 
Subject  to  their  kingly  will ; 

From  the  wondering  crowds  ashore. 
Treading  life’s  wild  waters  o’er, 

As  upon  a marble  floor, 

Moves  the  strong  man  still. 

Still,  to  such,  life’s  elements 
With  their  sterner  laws  dispense, 

And  the  chain  of  consequence 
Broken  in  their  pathway  lies  ; 

Time  and  change  their  vassals  making, 
Flowers  from  icy  pillows  waking, 
Tresses  of  the  sunrise  shaking 
Over  midnight  skies. 

Still,  to  earnest  souls,  the  sun 
Rests  on  towered  Gibeon, 

And  the  moon  of  Ajalon 

Lights  the  battle-grounds  of  life; 

To  his  aid  the  strong  reverses 
Hidden  powers  and  giant  forces, 

And  the  high  stars  in  their  courses 
Mingle  in  his  strife  ! 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


*7 


III.  — THE  DAUGHTER. 

The  soot-black  brows  of  men  — the  yell 
Of  women  thronging  round  the  bed  — 

The  tinkling  charm  of  ring  and  shell  — 

The  Powah  whispering  o’er  the  dead ! — 

All  these  the  Sachem’s  home  had  known, 
When,  on  her  journey  long  and  wild 

To  the  dim  World  of  Souls,  alone, 

In  her  young  beauty  passed  the  mother  of  his 
child. 

Three  bow-shots  from  the  Sachem’s  dwelling 
They  laid  her  in  the  walnut  shade, 

Where  a green  hillock  gently  swelling 
Her  fitting  mound  of  burial  made. 

There  trailed  the  vine  in  Summer  hours  — 
The  tree-perched  squirrel  dropped  his 
shell  — 

On  velvet  moss  and  pale-hued  flowers, 

Woven  with  leaf  and  spray,  the  softened  sunshine 
fell ! 

The  Indian’s  heart  is  hard  and  cold  — 

It  closes  darkly  o’er  its  care, 

And,  formed  in  Nature’s  sternest  mould, 

Is  slow  to  feel,  and  strong  to  bear. 


1 8 BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 

The  war-paint  on  the  Sachem’s  face, 

Unwet  with  tears,  shone  fierce  and  red, 

And  still  in  battle  or  in  chase, 

Dry  leaf  and  snow-rime  crisped  beneath  his 
foremost  tread. 

Yet,  when  her  name  was  heard  no  more, 

And  when  the  robe  her  mother  gave, 

And  small,  light  moccasin  she  wore, 

Had  slowly  wasted  on  her  grave, 

Unmarked  of  him  the  dark  maids  sped 
Their  sunset  dance  and  moon-lit  play ; 

No  bther  shared  his  lonely  bed, 

No  other  fair  young  head  upon  his  bosom  lay. 

A lone,  stern  man.  Yet,  as  sometimes 
The  tempest-smitten  tree  receives 
From  one  small  root  the  sap  which  climbs 
Its  topmost  spray  and  crowning  leaves, 

So  from  his  child  the  Sachem  drew 
A life  of  Love  and  Hope,  and  felt 
His  cold  and  rugged  nature  through 
The  softness  and  the  warmth  of  her  young  being 
melt. 

A laugh  which  in  the  woodland  rang 
Bemocking  April’s  gladdest  bird  — 

A light  and  graceful  form  which  sprang 
To  meet  him  when  his  step  was  heard  — 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


I9 


Eyes  by  his  lodge-fire  flashing  dark, 

Small  fingers  stringing  bead  and  shell 
Or  weaving  mats  of  bright-hued  bark,  — 

With  these  the  household-god  3 had  graced  his 
wigwam  well. 

Child  of  the  forest ! — strong  and  free, 
Slight-robed,  with  loosely  flowing  hair, 

She  swam  the  lake  or  climbed  the  tree, 

Or  struck  the  flying  bird  in  air. 

O’er  the  heaped  drifts  of  Winter’s  moon 
Her  snow-shoes  tracked  the  hunter’s  way ; 
And  dazzling  in  the  Summer  noon 
The  blade  of  her  light  oar  threw  off  its  shower 
of  spray  ! 

Unknown  to  her  the  rigid  rule, 

The  dull  restraint,  the  chiding  frown, 

The  weary  torture  of  the  school, 

The  taming  of  wild  nature  down. 

Her  only  lore,  the  legends  told 
Around  the  hunter’s  fire  at  night , 

Stars  rose  and  set,  and  seasons  rolled, 
Flowers  bloomed  and  snow-flakes  fell,  unques- 
tioned  in  her  sight. 

Unknown  to  her  the  subtle  skill 
With  which  the  artist  eye  can  trace 
In  rock  and  tree  and  lake  and  hill 
The  outlines  of  divinest  grace  ; 


20 


BRIDAL  OF  PEJVNACOOK. 


Unknown  the  fine  soul’s  keen  unrest 
Which  sees,  admires,  yet  yearns  alway ; 

Too  closely  on  her  mother’s  breast 
To  note  her  smiles  of  love  the  child  of  Nature 
lay ! 

It  is  enough  for  such  to  be 

Of  common,  natural  things  a part, 

To  feel  with  bird  and  stream  and  tree 
The  pulses  of  the  same  great  heart ; 

But  we,  from  Nature  long  exiled 

In  our  cold  homes  of  Art  and  Thought, 
Grieve  like  the  stranger-tended  child, 

Which  seeks  its  mother’s  arms,  and  sees  but 
feels  them  not. 

The  garden  rose  may  richly  bloom 
In  cultured  soil  and  genial  air, 

To  cloud  the  light  of  Fashion’s  room 
Or  droop  in  Beauty’s  midnight  hair, 

In  lonelier  grace,  to  sun  and  dew 

The  sweet-brier  on  the  hill-side  shows 
Its  single  leaf  and  fainter  hue, 

Untrained  and  wildly  free,  yet  still  a sister  rose! 

Thus  o’er  the  heart  of  Weetamoo 
Their  mingling  shades  of  joy  and  ill 
The  instincts  of  her  nature  threw,  — 

The  savage  was  a woman  still. 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


21 


Midst  outlines  dim  of  maiden  schemes, 
Heart-colored  prophecies  of  life, 

Rose  on  the  ground  of  her  young  dreams 
The  light  of  a new  home  — the  lover  and  the 
wife ! 


IV.  — THE  WEDDING. 

Cool  and  dark  fell  the  Autumn  night, 

But  the  Bashaba’s  wigwam  glowed  with  light, 
For  down  from  its  roof  by  green  withes  hung 
Flaring  and  smoking  the  pine-knots  swung. 

And  along  the  river  great  wood  fires 
Shot  into  the  night  their  long  red  spires, 
Showing  behind  the  tall,  dark  wood 
Flashing  before  on  the  sweeping  flood. 


In  the  changeful  wind,  with  shimmer  and  shade. 
Now  high,  now  low,  that  firelight  played, 

On  tree-leaves  wet  with  evening  dews, 

On  gliding  water  and  still  canoes. 

The  trapper,  that  night  on  Turee’s  brook, 

And  the  weary  fisher  on  Contoocook, 

Saw  over  the  marshes  and  through  the  pine, 
And  down  on  the  river  the  dance-lights  shine. 


22 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


For  the  Saugus  Sachem  had  come  to  woo 
The  Bashaba’s  daughter  Weetamoo, 

And  laid  at  her  father’s  feet  that  night 
His  softest  furs  and  wampum  white. 

From  the  Crystal  Hills  to  the  far  South  East 
The  river  Sagamores  came  to  the  feast ; 

And  chiefs  whose  homes  the  sea-winds  shook, 
Sat  down  on  the  mats  of  Pennacook. 

They  came  from  Sunapee’s  shore  of  rock, 

From  the  snowy  sources  of  Snooganock, 

And  from  rough  Coos  whose  thick  woods  shake 
Their  pine-cones  in  Umbagog  Lake. 

From  Ammonoosuck’s  mountain  pass 
Wild  as  his  home  came  Chepewass ; 

And  the  Keenomps  of  the  hills  which  throw 
Their  shade  on  the  Smile  of  Manito. 

With  pipes  of  peace  and  bows  unstrung, 
Glowing  with  paint  came  old  and  young. 

In  wampum  and  furs  and  feathers  arrayed 
To  the  dance  and  feast  the  Bashaba  made. 

Bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 

All  which  the  woods  and  waters  yield 
On  dishes  of  birch  and  hemlock  piled 
Garnished  and  graced  that  banquet  wild. 


BRIDAL  OF  PENN  A COOK, 


2 3 


Steaks  of  the  brown  bear  fat  and  large 
From  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  Kearsarge  ; 
Delicate  trout  from  Babboosuck  brook, 

And  salmon  spear’d  in  the  Contoocook ; 

Squirrels  which  fed  where  nuts  fell  thick 
In  the  gravelly  bed  of  the  Otternic, 

And  small  wild  hens  in  reed-snares  caught 
From  the  banks  of  Sondagardee  brought; 

Pike  and  perch  from  the  Suncook  taken, 

Nuts  from  the  trees  of  the  Black  Hills  shaken, 
Cranberries  picked  in  the  Squamscot  bog, 

And  grapes  from  the  vines  of  Piscataquog : 

And,  drawn  from  that  great  stone  vase  which 
stands 

In  the  river  scooped  by  a spirit’s  hands,4 
Garnished  with  spoons  of  shell  and  horn, 

Stood  the  birchen  dishes  of  smoking  corn. 

Thus  bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 

All  which  the  woods  and  the  waters  yield, 
Furnished  in  that  olden  day 
The  bridal  feast  of  the  Bashaba. 

And  merrily  when  the  feast  was  done 
On  the  fire-lit  green  the  dance  begun, 

With  squaws’  shrill  stave,  and  deeper  hum 
Of  old  men  beating  the  Indian  drum. 


2 4 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


Painted  and  plumed,  with  scalp  locks  flowing, 
And  red  arms  tossing  and  black  eyes  glowing, 
Now  in  the  light  and  now  in  the  shade 
Around  the  fires  the  dancers  played. 

The  step  was  quicker,  the  song  more  shrill, 
And  the  beat  of  the  small  drums  louder  still 
Whenever  within  the  circle  drew 
The  Saugus  Sachem  and  Weetamoo. 

The  moons  of  forty  winters  had  shed 
Their  snow  upon  that  chieftain’s  head, 

And  toil  and  care,  and  battle’s  chance 
Had  seamed  his  hard  dark  countenance. 

A fawn  beside  the  bison  grim  — 

Why  turns  the  bride’s  fond  eye  on  him, 

In  whose  cold  look  is  naught  beside 
The  triumph  of  a sullen  pride? 

Ask  why  the  graceful  grape  entwines 
The  rough  oak  with  her  arm  of  vines ; 

And  why  the  gray  rock’s  rugged  cheek 
The  soft  lips  of  the  mosses  seek : 

Why,  with  wise  instinct,  Nature  seems 
To  harmonize  her  wide  extremes, 

Linking  the  stronger  with  the  weak, 

The  haughty  with  the  soft  and  meek ! 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


25 


V.  — THE  NEW  HOME. 

A wild  and  broken  landscape,  spiked  with  firs. 
Roughening  the  bleak  horizon’s  northern  edge, 
Steep,  cavernous  hill-side,  where  black  hemlock 
spurs 

And  sharp,  gray  splinters  of  the  wind-swept 
ledge 

Pierced  the  thin-glaz’d  ice,  or  bristling  rose 
Where  the  cold  rim  of  the  sky  sunk  down  upon 
the  snows. 

And  eastward  cold,  wide  marshes  stretched 
away, 

Dull,  dreary  flats  without  a bush  or  tree, 
O’er-crossed  by  icy  creeks,  where  twice  a day 
Gurgled  the  waters  of  the  moon-struck  sea ; 
And  faint  with  distance  came  the  stifled  roar, 
The  melancholy  lapse  of  waves  on  that  low 
shore. 

No  cheerful  village  with  its  mingling  smokes, 

No  laugh  of  children  wrestling  in  the  snow, 
No  camp-fire  blazing  through  the  hill-side  oaks. 
No  fishers  kneeling  on  the  ice  below ; 

Yet  midst  all  desolate  things  of  sound  and  view, 
Through  the  long  winter  moons  smiled  dark- 
eyed Weetamoo. 


2 6 


BRIDA L OF  PENNACOOK. 


Her  heart  had  found  a home ; and  freshly  all 
Its  beautiful  affections  overgrew 
Their  rugged  prop.  A )me  granite  wall 

Soft  vine  leaves  op  moistening  dew 

And  warm  bright  sunr  iLeiove  of  that  young  wife 
Found  on  a hard  colcr  breast  the  dew  and  warmth 
of  life.  i 

The  steep  bleak  hills,  the  melancholy  shore, 

The  long  dead  level  of  the  marsh  between, 

A coloring  of  unreal  beauty  wore 

Through  the  soft  golden  mist  of  young  love 
seen, 

For  o’er  those  hills  and  from  that  dreary  plain, 
Nightly  she  welcomed  home  her  hunter  chief 
again. 

No  warmth  of  heart,  no  passionate  burst  of 
feeling 

Repaid  her  welcoming  smile,  and  parting  kiss, 
No  fond  and  playful  dalliance  half  concealing, 
Under  the  guise  of  mirth,  its  tenderness ; 

But,  in  their  stead,  the  warrior’s  settled  pride, 
And  vanity’s  pleased  smile  with  homage  satis- 
fied. 

Enough  for  Weetamoo,  that  she  alone 
Sat  on  his  mat  and  slumbered  at  his  side ; 
That  he  whose  fame  to  her  young  ear  had  flown, 
Now  looked  upon  her  proudly  as  his  bride ; 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


27 


That  he  whose  name  the  Mohawk  trembling 
heard 

Vouchsafed  to  her  ' a kindly  look  or  word. 

For  she  had  learned  the  xims  of  her  race. 
Which  teach  the  woman  to  become  a slave 

And  feel  herself  the  pardonless  disgrace 
Of  love’s  fond  weakness  in  the  wise  and 
brave  — 

The  scandal  and  the  shame  which  they  incur, 

Who  give  to  woman  all  which  man  requires  of 
her. 

So  passed  the  winter  moons.  The  sun  at  last 
Broke  link  by  link  the  frost  chain  of  the  rills. 

And  the  warm  breathings  of  the  south-west 
passed 

Over  the  hoar  rime  of  the  Saugus  hills, 

The  gray  and  desolate  marsh  grew  green  once 
• more, 

And  the  birch-tree’s  tremulous  shade  fell  round 
the  Sachem’s  door. 

Then  from  far  Pennacook  swift  runners  came, 
With  gift  and  greeting  for  the  Saugus  chief ; 

Beseeching  him  in  the  great  Sachem’s  name, 
That,  with  the  coming  of  the  flower  and  leaf. 

The  song  of  birds,  the  warm  breeze  and  the  rain, 

Young  Weetamoo  might  greet  her  lonely  sire 
again. 


28 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


And  Winnepurkit  called  his  chiefs  together, 

And  a grave  council  in  his  wigwam  met, 
Solemn  and  brief  in  words,  considering  whether 
The  rigid  rules  of  forest  etiquette 
Permitted  Weetamoo  once  more  to  look 
Upon  her  father's  face  and  green-banked  Penna- 
cook. 

With  interludes  of  pipe-smoke  and  strong  water, 
The  forest  sages  pondered,  and  at  length, 
Concluded  in  a body  to  escort  her 

Up  to  her  father’s  home  of  pride  and  strength. 
Impressing  thus  on  Pennacook  a sense 
Oi  Winnepurkit’s  power  and  regal  consequence. 

So  through  old  woods  which  Aukeetamit’s 5 
hand, 

A soft  and  many-shaded  greenness  lent, 

Over  high  breezy  hills,  and  meadow  land 

Yrlbw  ,,xch  flowers,  the  wild  procession  Went, 
Till  rolling  down  its  wooded  banks  between, 

A broad,  clear,  mountain  stream,  the  Merrimack 
was  seen. 

The  hunter  leaning  on  his  bow  undrawn  — 

The  fisher  lounging  on  the  pebbled  shores, 
Squaws  in  the  clearing  dropping  the  seed-corn, 
Young  children  peering  through  the  wigwam 
doors, 


BRIDAL  OF  PEN  HA  COOK. 


29 


Saw  with  delight,  surrounded  by  her  train 
Of  painted  Saugus  braves,  their  Weetamoo 
again. 


VI.  — AT  PENNACOOK. 

The  hills  are  dearest  which  our  childish  feet 
Have  climbed  the  earliest ; and  the  streams 
most  sweet, 

Are  ever  those  at  which  our  young  lips  drank. 
Stooped  to  their  waters  o’er  the  grassy  bank  : 

Midst  the  cold  dreary  sea-watch,  Home’s  hearth- 
light 

Shines  round  the  helmsman  plunging  through 
the  night ; 

And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  traveller  sees 
In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  native  trees. 

The  home-sick  dreamer’s  brow  is  nightly  fanned 
By  breezes  whispering  of  his  native  land, 

And,  on  the  stranger’s  dim  and  dying  eye 
The  soft,  sweet  pictures  of  his  childhood  lie ! 

Joy  then  for  Weetamoo,  to  sit  once  more 
A child  upon  her  father’s  wigwam  floor ! 

Once  more  with  her  old  fondness  to  beguile 
From  his  cold  eye  the  strange  light  of  a smile 


30 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


The  long  bright  days  of  Summer  swiftly  passed. 
The  dry  leaves  whirled  in  Autumn’s  rising  blast. 
And  evening  cloud  and  whitening  sunrise  rime 
Told  of  the  coming  of  the  winter  time. 

But  vainly  looked,  the  while,  young  Weetamoo, 
Down  the  dark  river  for  her  chief’s  canoe ; 

No  dusky  messenger  from  Saugus  brought, 

The  grateful  tidings  which  the  young  wife 
sought. 

At  length  a runner  from  her  father  sent, 

To  Winnepurkit’s  sea-cooled  wigwam  went : 

“ Eagle  of  Saugus,  — in  the  woods  the  dove 
Mourns  for  the  shelter  of  thy  wings  of  love.” 

But  the  dark  chief  of  Saugus  turned  aside 
In  the  grim  anger  of  hard-hearted  pride  ; 

“ I bore  her  as  became  a chieftain’s  daughter, 
Up  to  her  home  beside  the  gliding  water. 

“ If  now  no  more  a mat  for  her  is  found 
Of  all  which  line  her  father’s  wigwam  round, 

Let  Pennacook  call  out  his  warrior  train 
And  send  her  back  with  wampum  gifts  again.” 

The  baffled  runner  turned  upon  his  track, 
Bearing  the  words  of  Winnepurkit  back. 

“ Dog  of  the  Marsh,”  cried  Pennacook,  “ no 
more 

Shall  child  of  mine  sit  on  his  wigwam  floor. 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 

**  Go  — let  him  seek  some  meaner  squaw  to 
spread 

The  stolen  bear-skin  of  his  beggar’s  bed  : 

Son  of  a fish-hawk  ! — let  him  dig  his  clams 
For  some  vile  daughter  of  the  Aga warns, 

“Or  coward  Nipmucks  ! — may  his  scalp  dry 
black 

In  Mohawk  smoke,  before  I send  her  back.” 

He  shook  his  clinched  hand  towards  the  ocean 
wave, 

While  hoarse  assent  his  listening  council  gave* 

Alas,  poor  bride  ! — can  thy  grim  sire  impart 
His  iron  hardness  to  thy  woman’s  heart  ? 

Or  cold  self-torturing  pride  like  his  atone 
For  love  denied  and  life’s  warm  beauty  flown  ? 

On  Autumn’s  gray  and  mournful  grave  the  snow 
Hung  its  white  wreaths ; with  stifled  voice  and 
low 

The  river  crept,  by  one  vast  bridge  o’ercrossed, 
Built  by  the  hoar-locked  artisan  of  Frost. 

And  many  a Moon  in  beauty  newly  born 
Pierced  the  red  sunset  with  her  silver  horn, 

Or,  from  the  east  across  her  azure  field 
Rolled  the  wide  brightness  of  her  full-orbed 
shield. 


32 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


Yet  Winnepurkit  came  not — on  the  mat 
Of  the  scorned  wife  her  dusky  rival  sat, 

And  he,  the  while,  in  Western  woods  afar  — 
Urged  the  long  chase,  or  trod  the  path  of  war. 

Dry  up  thy  tears,  young  daughter  of  a chief! 
Waste  not  on  him  the  sacredness  of  grief ; 

Be  the  fierce  spirit  of  thy  sire  thine  own, 

His  lips  of  scorning,  and  his  heart  of  stone. 

What  heeds  the  warrior  of  a hundred  fights, 

The  storm-worn  watcher  through  long  hunting 
nights, 

Cold,  crafty,  proud,  of  woman’s  weak  distress, 
Her  home-bound  grief  and  pining  loneliness  ? 

VII.  — THE  DEPARTURE. 

The  wild  March  rains  had  fallen  fast  and  long 
The  snowy  mountains  of  the  North  among, 
Making  each  vale  a water-course  — each  hill 
Bright  with  the  cascade  of  some  new-made  rill. 

Gnawed  by  the  sunbeams,  softened  by  the  rain, 
Heaved  underneath  by  the  swollen  current’s 
strain, 

The  ice-bridge  yielded,  and  the  Merrimack 
Bore  the  huge  ruin  crashing  down  its  track. 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


33 


On  that  strong  turbid  water,  a small  boat 
Guided  by  one  weak  hand  was  seen  to  float, 

Evil  the  fate  which  loosed  it  from  the  shore, 

Too  early  voyager  with  too  frail  an  oar  ! 

Down  the  vexed  centre  of  that  rushing  tide, 

The  thick  huge  ice-blocks  threatening  either 
side, 

The  foam-white  rocks  of  Amoskeag  in  view, 
With  arrowy  swiftness  sped  that  light  canoe. 

The  trapper  moistening  his  moose’s  meat 
On  the  wet  bank  by  Uncanoonuc’s  feet, 

Saw  the  swift  boat  flash  down  the  troubled 
stream  — 

Slept  he,  or  waked  he  ? — was  it  truth  or  dream  ? 

The  straining  eye  bent  fearfully  before, 

The  small  hand  clinching  on  the  useless  oar, 
The  bead-wrought  blanket  trailing  o’er  the 
water  — 

He  knew  them  all  — woe  for  the  Sachem’s 
daughter ! 

Sick  and  aweary  of  her  lonely  life, 

Heedless  of  peril  the  still  faithful  wife 

Had  left  her  mother’s  grave,  her  father’s  door, 

To  seek  the  wigwam  of  her  chief  once  more. 


34 


BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


Down  the  white  rapids  like  a sear  leaf  whirled, 
On  the  sharp  rocks  and  piled-up  ices  hurled, 
Empty  and  broken,  circled  the  canoe 
In  the  vexed  pool  below  — but,  where  was 
Weetamoo  ? 


VIII.  — SONG  OF  INDIAN  WOMEN. 

The  Dark  eye  has  left  us, 

The  Spring-bird  has  flown, 

On  the  pathway  of  spirits 
She  wanders  alone. 

The  song  of  the  wood-dove  has  died  on  our 
shore 

Mat  wonck  kunaa-inonee  /6  — We  hear  it  no 
more ! 

Oh,  dark  water  Spirit ! 

We  cast  on  thy  wave 

These  furs  which  may  never 
Hang  over  her  grave  ; 

Bear  down  to  the  lost  one  the  robes  that  she 
wore ; 

Mat  wonck  ku7ina-monee ! — We  see  her  no 
more  ! 

Of  the  strange  land  she  walks  in 
No  powah  has  told : 


BRIDAL  OF  RENATA  COOH. 


35 


It  may  burn  with  the  sunshine, 

Or  freeze  with  the  cold. 

Let  us  give  to  our  lost  one  the  robes  that  she 
wore, 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee ! — We  see  her  no 
more  ! 

The  path  she  is  treading 
Shall  soon  be  our  own  ; 

Each  gliding  in  shadow 
Unseen  and  alone  ! — 

In  vain  shall  we  call  on  the  souls  gone  before  — 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  / — They  hear  us  no 
more ! 

Oh  mighty  Sowanna ! 7 
Thy  gateways  unfold, 

From  thy  wigwam  of  sunset 
Lift  curtains  of  gold  ! 

Take  home  the  poor  Spirit  whose  journey  is 
o’er  — 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee!  — We  see  her  no 
more ! 

So  sang  the  Children  of  the  Leaves  beside 

The  broad,  dark  river’s  coldly-flowing  tide, 

Now  low,  now  harsh,  with  sob-like  pause  and 
swell 

On  the  high  wind  their  voices  rose  and  fell- 


$6  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 

Nature’s  wild  music  — sounds  of  wind-swept 
trees, 

The  scream  of  birds,  the  wailing  of  the  breeze, 
The  roar  of  waters,  steady,  deep  and  strong. 
Mingled  and  murmured  in  that  farewell  song. 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


37 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


PART  I. 

Who  stands  on  that  cliff,  like  a figure  of  stone. 
Unmoving  and  tall  in  the  light  of  the  sky, 
Where  the  spray  of  the  cataract  sparkles  on 
high. 

Lonely  and  sternly,  save  Mogg  Megone  ? 8 
Close  to  the  verge  of  the  rock  is  he, 

While  beneath  him  the  Saco  its  work  is 
doing. 

Hurrying  down  to  its  grave,  the  sea, 

And  slow  through  the  rock  its  pathway  hewing! 
Far  down,  through  the  mist  of  the  falling  river. 
Which  rises  up  like  an  incense  ever, 

The  splintered  points  of  the  crags  are  seen, 
With  water  howling  and  vexed  between, 

While  the  scooping  whirl  of  the  pool  beneath 
Seems  an  open  throat,  with  its  granite  teeth ! 

But  Mogg  Megone  never  trembled  yet 
Wherever  his  eye  or  his  foot  was  set. 


38  MOGG  MEGONE. 

He  is  watchful : each  form,  in  the  moonlight 
dim, 

Of  rock  or  of  tree,  is  seen  of  him : 

He  listens ; each  sound  from  afar  is  caught, 

The  faintest  shiver  of  leaf  and  limb  : 

But  he  sees  not  the  waters,  which  foam  and  fret, 
Whose  moonlit  spray  has  his  moccasin  wet  — 
And  the  roar  of  their  rushing,  he  hears  it  not. 

The  moonlight,  through  the  open  bough 
Of  the  gnarl’d  beech,  whose  naked  root 
Coils  like  a serpent  at  his  foot, 

Falls,  chequered,  on  the  Indian’s  brow. 

His  head  is  bare,  save  only  where 
Waves  in  the  wind  one  lock  of  hair, 

Reserved  for  him,  whoe’er  he  be, 

More  mighty  than  Megone  in  strife, 

When  breast  to  breast  and  knee  to  knee, 
Above  the  fallen  warrior’s  life 
Gleams,  quick  and  keen,  the  scalping-knife. 

Megone  hath  his  knife  and  hatchet  and  gun, 

And  his  gaudy  and  tasselled  blanket  on : 

His  knife  hath  a handle  with  gold  inlaid, 

And  magic  words  on  its  polished  blade  — 

’Twas  the  gift  of  Castine9  to  Mogg  Megone, 

For  a scalp  or  twain  from  the  Yengees  torn : 

His  gun  was  the  gift  of  the  Tarrantine, 

And  Modocawando’s  wives  had  strung 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


39 


The  brass  and  the  beads,  which  tinkle  and 
shine 

On  the  polished  breech,  and  broad  bright  line 
Of  beaded  wampum  around  it  hung. 

What  seeks  Megone?  His  foes  are  near  — 

Gray  Jocelyn’s10  eye  is  never  sleeping, 

And  the  garrison  lights  are  burning  clear, 

Where  Phillips’11  men  their  watch  are  keep- 
ing. 

Let  him  hie  him  away  through  the  dank  river 
fog, 

Never  rustling  the  boughs  nor  displacing  the 
rocks, 

For  the  eyes  and  the  ears  which  are  watching 
for  Mogg, 

Are  keener  than  those  of  the  wolf  or  the  fox. 

He  starts  — there’s  a rustle  among  the  leaves  : 
Another  — the  click  of  his  gun  is  heard  ! — 

A footstep  — is  it  the  step  of  Cleaves, 

With  Indian  blood  on  his  English  sword? 
Steals  Harmon  12  down  from  the  sands  of  York, 
With  hand  of  iron  and  foot  of  cork? 

Has  Scamman,  versed  in  Indian  wile, 

For  vengeance  left  his  vine  hung  isle?13 
Hark ! at  that  whistle,  soft  and  low, 

How  lights  the  eye  of  Mogg  Megone ! 

A smile  gleams  o’er  his  dusky  brow  — 

“ Boon  welcome,  Johnny  Bonython  !” 


40 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


Out  steps,  with  cautious  foot  and  slow, 

And  quick,  keen  glances  to  and  fro, 

The  hunted  outlaw,  Bonython ! 14 
A low,  lean  swarthy  man  is  he, 

With  blanket-garb  and  buskined  knee, 

And  nought  of  English  fashion  on  ; 

For  he  hates  the  race  from  whence  he  sprung, 
And  he  couches  his  words  in  the  Indian  tongue. 

“ Hush  — let  the  Sachem’s  voice  be  weak  ; 

The  water-rat  shall  hear  him  speak  — 

The  owl  shall  whoop  in  the  white  man’s  ear, 
That  Mogg  Megone,  with  his  scalps,  is  here!” 
He  pauses  — dark,  over  cheek  and  brow, 

A flush,  as  of  shame,  is  stealing  now: 

“ Sachem  ! ” he  says,  “ let  me  have  the  land, 
Which  stretches  away  upon  either  hand, 

As  far  about  as  my  feet  can  stray 
In  the  half  of  a gentle  summer’s  day, 

From  the  leaping  brook 15  to  the  Saco  River  — 
And  the  fair-haired  girl,  thou  hast  sought  of  me, 
Shall  sit  in  the  Sachem’s  wigwam,  and  be 
The  wife  of  Mogg  Megone  forever.” 

There’s  a sudden  light  in  the  Indian’s  glance, 

A moment’s  trace  of  powerful  feeling  — 

Of  love  or  triumph,  or  both  perchance, 

Over  his  proud,  calm  features  stealing. 

“ The  words  of  my  father  are  very  good  ; 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


41 


He  shall  have  the  land,  and  water,  and  wood ; 

And  he  who  harms  the  Sagamore  John, 

Shall  feel  the  knife  of  Mogg  Megone  ; 

But  the  fawn  of  the  Yengees  shall  sleep  on  my 
breast, 

And  the  bird  of  the  clearing  shall  sing  in  my 
nest. 

“ But,  father ! ” — and  the  Indian’s  hand 
Falls  gently  on  the  white  man’s  arm, 

And  with  a smile  as  shrewdly  bland 
As  the  deep  voice  is  slow  and  calm  — 

“ Where  is  my  father’s  singing-bird  — 

The  sunny  eye,  and  sunset  hair? 

I know  I have  my  father’s  word, 

And  that  his  word  is  good  and  fair ; 

But,  will  my  father  tell  me  where 

Megone  shall  go  and  look  for  his  bride?  — 

For  he  sees  her  not  by  her  father’s  side.” 

The  dark,  stern  eye  of  Bonython 

Flashes  over  the  features  of  Mogg  Megone, 

In  one  of  those  glances  which  search  within ; 

But  the  stolid  calm  of  the  Indian  alone 

Remains  where  the  trace  of  emotion  has  been. 

44  Does  the  Sachem  doubt?  Let  him  go  with 
me, 

And  the  eyes  of  the  Sachem  his  bride  shall 
see.” 


42 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


Cautious  and  slow,  with  pauses  oft, 

And  watchful  eyes  and  whispers  soft, 

The  twain  are  stealing  through  the  wood, 
Leaving  the  downward-rushing  flood, 
Whose  deep  and  solemn  roar  behind, 
Grows  fainter  on  the  evening  wind. 

Hark  ! — is  that  the  angry  howl 
Of  the  wolf,  the  hills  among?  — 

Or  the  hooting  of  the  owl, 

On  his  leafy  cradle  swung?  — 

Quickly  glancing,  to  and  fro, 

Listening  to  each  sound  they  go : 
Round  the  columns  of  the  pine, 
Indistinct,  in  shadow,  seeming 
Like  some  old  and  pillared  shrine ; 
With  the  soft  and  white  moonshine, 
Round  the  foliage-tracery  shed 
Of  each  column’s  branching  head, 

For  its  lamps  of  worship  gleaming! 
And  the  sounds  awakened  there, 

In  the  pine  leaves  fine  and  small, 

Soft  and  sweetly  musical, 

By  the  fingers  of  the  air, 

For  the  anthem’s  dying  fall 
Lingering  round  some  temple’s  wall ! 
Niche  and  cornice  round  and  round 
Wailing  like  the  ghost  of  sound ! 

Is  not  Nature’s  worship  thus  , 

Ceaseless  ever,  going  on? 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


43 


Hath  it  not  a voice  for  us 
In  the  thunder,  or  the  tone 
Of  the  leaf-harp  faint  and  small, 

Speaking  to  the  unsealed  ear 
Words  of  blended  love  and  fear, 

Of  the  mighty  Soul  of  all? 

Nought  had  the  twain  of  thoughts  like  these 
As  they  wound  along  through  the  crowded  trees. 
Where  never  had  rung  the  axeman’s  stroke 
On  the  gnarled  trunk  of  the  rough-barked 
oak  ; — 

Climbing  the  dead  tree’s  mossy  log, 

Breaking  the  mesh  of  the  bramble  fine, 
Turning  aside  the  wild  grape  vine, 

And  lightly  crossing  the  quaking  bog 
Whose  surface  shakes  at  the  leap  of  the  frog. 
And  out  of  whose  pools  the  ghostly  fog 
Creeps  into  the  chill  moonshine  ! 

Yet,  even  that  Indian’s  ear  had  heard 
The  preaching  of  the  Holy  Word : 
Sanchekantacket’s  isle  of  sand 
Was  once  his  father’s  hunting  land, 

Where  zealous  Hiacoomes  16  stood  — 

The  wild  apostle  of  the  wood, 

Shook  from  his  soul  the  fear  of  harm. 

And  trampled  on  the  Powwaw’s  charm ; 

Until  the  wizard’s  curses  hung 


44 


MOGG  MEGONE,  ' 


Suspended  on  his  palsying  tongue, 

And  the  fierce  warrior,  grim  and  tall, 
Trembled  before  the  forest  Paul ! 

A cottage  hidden  in  the  wood  — 

Red  through  its  seams  a light  is  glowing, 
On  rock  and  bough  and  tree-trunk  rude, 

A narrow  lustre  throwing. 

“ Who’s  there?  ” a clear,  firm  voice  demands 
“ Hold,  Ruth  — ’tis  I,  the  Sagamore!” 
Quick,  at  the  summons,  hasty  hands 
Unclose  the  bolted  door ; 

And  on  the  outlaw’s  daughter  shine 
The  flashes  of  the  kindled  pine. 

Tall  and  erect  the  maiden  stands, 

Like  some  young  priestess  of  the  wood, 
The  free  born  child  of  Solitude, 

And  bearing  still  the  wild  and  rude, 

Yet  noble  trace  of  Nature’s  hands. 

Her  dark  brown  cheek  has  caught  its  stain 
More  from  the  sunshine  than  the  rain ; 

Yet,  where  her  long  fair  hair  is  parting, 

A pure  white  brow  into  light  is  starting ; 

And,  where  the  folds  of  her  blanket  sever, 
Are  a neck  and  bosom  as  white  as  ever 
The  foam-wreaths  rise  on  the  leaping  river. 
But,  in  the  convulsive  quiver  and  grip 
Of  the  muscles  around  her  bloodless  lip, 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


45 


There  is  something  painful  and  sad  to  see  ; 
And  her  eye  has  a glance  more  sternly  wild 
Than  even  that  of  a forest  child 

In  its  fearless  and  untamed  freedom  should 
be. 

Yet,  seldom  in  hall  or  court  are  seen 
So  queenly  a form  and  so  noble  a mien, 

As  freely  and  smiling  she  welcomes  them 
there ! 

Her  outlawed  sire  and  Mogg  Megone  : 

“ Pray,  father,  how  does  thy  hunting  fare? 
And,  Sachem,  say  — does  Scamman  wear, 

In  spite  of  thy  promise,  a scalp  of  his  own  ?” 
Hurried  and  light  is  the  maiden’s  tone ; 

But  a fearful  meaning  lurks  within 
Her  glance,  as  it  questions  the  eye  of  Megone  - 
An  awful  meaning  of  guilt  and  sin  ! — 

The  Indian  hath  opened  his  blanket,  and  there 
Hangs  a human  scalp  by  its  long  damp  hair ! 
With  hand  upraised,  with  quick-drawn  breath, 
She  meets  that  ghastly  sign  of  death, 

In  one  long,  glassy,  spectral  stare 
The  enlarging  eye  is  fastened  there, 

As  if  that  mesh  of  pale  brown  hair 
Had  power  to  change  at  sight  alone, 

Even  as  the  fearful  locks  which  wound 
Medusa’s  fatal  forehead  round, 

The  gazer  into  stone. 


46 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


With  such  a look  Herodias  read 
The  features  of  the  bleeding  head, 

So  looked  the  mad  Moor  on  his  dead, 

Or  the  young  Cenci  as  she  stood, 
O’er-dabbled  with  a father’s  blood  ! 

Look  ! — feeling  melts  that  frozen  glance,  * 

It  moves  that  marble  countenance, 

As  if  at  once  within  her  strove 
Pity  with  shame,  and  hate  with  love. 

The  Past  recalls  its  joy  and  pain, 

Old  memories  rise  before  her  brain  — 

The  lips  which  love’s  embraces  met, 

The  hand  her  tears  of  parting  wet, 

The  voice  whose  pleading  tones  beguiled 
The  pleased  ear  of  the  forest-child,  — 

And  tears  she  may  no  more  repress 
Reveal  her  lingering  tenderness. 

Oh  ! woman  wronged,  can  cherish  hate 
More  deep  and  dark  than  manhood  may ; 
But,  when  the  mockery  of  Fate 
Hath  left  Revenge  its  chosen  way, 

And  the  fell  curse,  which  years  have  nursed, 
Full  on  the  spoiler’s  head  hath  burst  — 
When  all  her  wrong,  and  shame,  and  pain, 
Burns  fiercely  on  his  heart  and  brain  — 

Still  lingers  something  of  the  spell 

Which  bound  her  to  the  traitor’s  bosom  — 


MOGG  ME GOJVE. 


47 


Still,  midst  the  vengeful  fires  of  hell, 

Some  flowers  of  old  affection  blossom. 

John  Bonython’s  eyebrows  together  are  drawn 
With  a fierce  expression  of  wrath  and  scorn  — 
He  hoarsely  whispers,  “ Ruth,  beware  ! 

Is  this  the  time  to  be  playing  the  fool  — 
Crying  over  a paltry  lock  of  hair, 

Like  a love-sick  girl  at  school  ? — 

Curse  on  it ! — an  Indian  can  see  and  hear : 
Away  — and  prepare  our  evening  cheer ! ” 

How  keenly  the  Indian  is  watching  now 
Her  tearful  eye  and  her  varying  brow  — 

With  a serpent  eye,  which  kindles  and  burns. 
Like  a fiery  star  in  the  upper  air : 

On  sire  and  daughter  his  fierce  glance  turns  : — 
“ Has  my  old  white  father  a scalp  to  spare? 
For  his  young  one  loves  the  pale  brown  hair 
Of  the  scalp  of  an  English  dog,  far  more 
Than  Mogg  Megone,  or  his  wigwam  floor  : 

Go  — Mogg  is  wise  : he  will  keep  his  land  — 
And  Sagamore  John,  when  he  feels  with  his 
hand, 

Shall  miss  his  scalp  where  it  grew  before.” 

The  moment’s  gust  of  grief  is  gone  — 

The  lip  is  clenched — -the  tears  are  still  — 
God  pity  thee,  Ruth  Bonython ! 

With  what  a strength  of  will 


48 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Are  nature’s  feelings  in  thy  breast, 

As  with  an  iron  hand  repressed ! 

And  how,  upon  that  nameless  woe, 

Quick  as  the  pulse  can  come  and  go, 

While  shakes  the  unsteadfast  knee,  and  yet 
The  bosom  heaves  — the  eye  is  wet  — 

Has  thy  dark  spirit  power  to  stay 
The  heart’s  wild  current  on  its  way? 

And  whence  that  baleful  strength  of  guile, 
Which  over  that  still  working  brow 
And  tearful  eye  and  cheek,  can  throw 
The  mockery  of  a smile? 

Warned  by  her  father’s  blackening  frown, 

With  one  strong  effort  crushing  down 
Grief,  hate,  remorse,  she  meets  again 
The  savage  murderer’s  sullen  gaze, 

And  scarcely  look  or  tone  betrays 
How  the  heart  strives  beneath  its  chain. 

“ Is  the  Sachem  angry — angry  with  Ruth, 
Because  she  cries  with  an  ache  in  her  tooth,17 
Which  would  make  a Sagamore  jump  and  cry, 
And  look  about  with  a woman's  eye? 

No  — Ruth  will  sit  in  the  Sachem’s  doer, 

And  braid  the  mats  for  his  wigwam  floor, 

And  broil  his  fish  and  tender  fawn, 

And  weave  his  wampum,  and  grind  his  corn,  — * 
For  she  loves  the  brave  and  the  wise,  and  none 
Are  braver  and  wiser  than  Mogg  Megone ! ” 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


49 


The  Indian’s  brow  is  clear  once  more : 

With  grave,  calm  face,  and  half-shut  eye. 
He  sits  upon  the  wigwam  floor, 

And  watches  Ruth  go  by, 

Intent  upon  her  household  care  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  while, 

Or  on  the  maiden,  or  her  fare, 

Which  smokes  in  grateful  promise  there. 
Bestows  his  quiet  smile. 

Ah,  Mogg  Megone  ! — what  dreams  are  thine. 
But  those  which  love’s  own  fancies  dress- — 
The  sum  of  Indian  happiness  ! — 

A wigwam,  where  the  warm  sunshine 
Looks  in  among  the  groves  of  pine  — 

A stream,  where,  round  thy  light  canoe* 

The  trout  and  salmon  dart  in  view, 

And  the  fair  girl,  before  thee  now, 

Spreading  thy  mat  with  hand  of  snow, 

Or  plying,  in  the  dews  of  morn, 

Her  hoe  amidst  thy  patch  of  corn, 

Or  offering  up,  at  eve,  to  thee, 

Thy  birchen  dish  of  hominy  ! 

From  the  rude  board  of  Bonython, 

Venison  and  suckatash  have  gone  — 

For  long  these  dwellers  of  the  wood 
Have  felt  the  gnawing  want  of  food. 

But  untasted  of  Ruth  is  the  frugal  cheer — - 
With  head  averted,  yet  ready  ear, 


5° 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


She  stands  by  the  side  of  her  austere  sire, 
Feeding,  at  times,  the  unequal  tire, 

With  the  yellow  knots  of  the  pitch-pine  tree, 
Whose  flaring  light,  as  they  kindle,  falls 
On  the  cottage-roof,  and  its  black  log  walls, 

And  over  its  inmates  three. 

From  Sagamore  Bonython’s  hunting  flask 
The  fire-water  burns  at  the  lip  of  Megone  : 

44  Will  the  Sachem  hear  what  his  father  shall 
ask  ? 

Will  he  make  his  mark,  that  it  may  be  known, 
On  the  speaking-leaf,  that  he  gives  the  land, 
From  the  Sachem’s  own,  to  his  father’s  hand?” 

The  fire-water  shines  in  the  Indian’s  eyes, 

As  he  rises,  the  white  man’s  bidding  to  do : 

44  Wuttamuttata  — weekan  ! 18  Mogg  is  wise  — 
For  the  water  he  drinks  is  strong  and  new,  — 
Mogg’s  heart  is  great ! — will  he  shut  his  hand, 
When  his  father  asks  for  a little  land?  ” — 

With  unsteady  fingers,  the  Indian  has  drawn 
On  the  parchment  the  shape  of  a hunter’s 
bow : 

44  Boon  water  — boon  water  — Sagamore  J ohn  ! 
Wuttamuttata  — weekan  ! our  hearts  will 
grow ! ” 

He  drinks  yet  deeper — he  mutters  low  — 

He  reels  on  his  bear-skin  to  and  fro  — 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


51 


His  head  falls  down  on  his  naked  breast  — 

He  struggles,  and  sinks  to  a drunken  rest. 

“Humph  — drunk  as  a beast!”  — and  Bony- 
thon’s  brow 

Is  darker  than  ever  with  evil  thought  — 

“ The  fool  has  signed  his  warrant ; but  how 
And  when  shall  the  deed  be  wrought? 

Speak,  Ruth ! why,  what  the  devil  is  there, 

To  fix  thy  gaze  in  that  empty  air?  — 

Speak,  Ruth!  — by  my  soul,  if  I thought  that 
tear, 

Which  shames  thyself  and  our  purpose  here, 
Were  shed  for  that  cursed  and  pale-faced  dog. 
Whose  green  scalp  hangs  from  the  belt  of  Mogg, 
And  whose  beastly  soul  is  in  Satan’s  keeping — 
This  — this  !”  — he  dashes  his  hand  upon 
The  rattling  stock  of  his  loaded  gun  — 

“ Should  send  thee  with  him  to  do  thy  weep- 
ing ! ” 

“ Father ! ” — the  eye  of  Bonython 
Sinks,  at  that  low,  sepulchral  tone, 

Hollow  and  deep,  as  it  were  spoken 
By  the  unmoving  tongue  of  death  — 

Or  from  some  statue’s  lips  had  broken  — 

A sound  without  a breath  ! 

“ Father  ! — my  life  I value  less 
Than  yonder  fool  his  gaudy  dress ; 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


52 

And  how  it  ends  it  matters  not, 

By  heart-break  or  by  rifle-shot : 

But  spare  awhile  the  scoff  and  threat  — 

Our  business  is  not  finished  yet.” 

True,  true,  my  girl  — I only  meant 
To  draw  up  again  the  bow  unbent. 

Harm  thee,  my  Ruth  ! I only  sought 
To  frighten  off  thy  gloomy  thought ; — 

•Come  — let’s  be  friends  ! ” He  seeks  to  clasp 
His  daughter’s  cold,  damp  hand  in  his. 

Ruth  startles  from  her  father’s  grasp, 

As  if  each  nerve  and  muscle  felt, 

Instinctively,  the  touch  of  guilt, 

Through  all  their  subtle  sympathies. 

He  points  her  to  the  sleeping  Mogg. 

“ What  shall  be  done  with  yonder  dog? 
Scamman  is  dead,  and  revenge  is  thine  — 

The  deed  is  signed  and  the  land  is  mine  ; 

And  this  drunken  fool  is  of  use  no  more, 
Save  as  thy  hopeful  bridegroom,  and  sooth, 
’Twere  Christian  mercy  to  finish  him  Ruth, 
Now,  while  he  lies  like  a beast  on  our  floor,— 
If  not  for  thine,  at  least  for  his  sake, 

Rather  than  let  the  poor  dog  awake, 

To  drain  my  flask,  and  claim  as  his  bride 
Such  a forest  devil  to  run  by  his  side  — 

Such  a Wetuomanit 19  as  thou  wouldst  make  ! ” 


MOGG  ME  GONE, 


53 


He  laughs  at  his  jest.  Hush  — what  is  there  ? — 
The  sleeping  Indian  is  striving  to  rise, 

With  his  knife  in  his  hand,  and  glaring  eyes  ! — « 
“ Wagh  ! — Mogg  will  have  the  pale-face’s  hair, 
For  his  knife  is  sharp  and  his  fingers  can  help 
The  hair  to  pull  and  the  skin  to  peel  — 

Let  him  cry  like  a woman  and  twist  like  an  eel, 
The  great  Captain  Scamman  must  lose  his 
scalp ! 

And  Ruth,  when  she  sees  it,  shall  dance  with 
Mogg.” 

His  eyes  are  fixed  — but  his  lips  draw  in  — 

With  a low,  hoarse  chuckle,  and  fiendish  grin,  — 
And  he  sinks  again,  like  a senseless  log. 

Ruth  does  not  speak  — she  does  not  stir; 

But  she  gazes  down  on  the  murderer, 

Whose  broken  and  dreamful  slumbers  tell, 

Too  much  for  her  ear,  of  that  deed  of  hell. 

She  sees  the  knife,  with  its  slaughter  red, 

And  the  dark  fingers  clenching  the  bear-skin  bed  ! 
What  thoughts  of  horror  and  madness  whirl 
Through  the  burning  brain  of  that  fallen  girl ! 

John  Bonython  lifts  his  gun  to  his  eye, 

Its  muzzle  is  close  to  the  Indian’s  ear  — 

But  he  drops  it  again.  “ Some  one  may  be 
nigh, 

And  I would  not  that  even  the  wolves  should 
hear.” 


54 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


He  draws  his  knife  from  its  deer-skin  belt  — 

Its  edge  with  his  fingers  is  slowly  felt ; 

Kneeling  down  on  one  knee,  by  the  Indian’s 
side, 

From  his  throat  he  opens  the  blanket  wide ; 

And  twice  or  thrice  he  feebly  essays 
A trembling  hand  with  the  knife  to  raise. 

“I  cannot”  — he  mutters — “did  he  not  save 
My  life  from  a cold  and  wintry  grave, 

When  the  storm  came  down  from  Agioochook, 
And  the  north-wind  howled,  and  the  tree-tops 
shook  — 

And  I strove,  in  the  drifts  of  the  rushing  snow, 
Till  my  knees  grew  weak  and  I could  not  go, 
And  I felt  the  cold  to  my  vitals  creep, 

And  my  heart’s  blood  stiffen,  and  pulses  sleep ! 

I cannot  strike  him  — Ruth  Bonython ! 

In  the  devil’s  name,  tell  me  — what’s  to  be 
done  ? ” 

Oh ! when  the  soul,  once  pure  and  high, 

Is  stricken  down  from  Virtue’s  sky, 

As,  with  the  downcast  star  of  morn, 

Some  gems  of  light  are  with  it  drawn  — 
And,  through  its  night  of  darkness,  play 
Some  tokens  of  its  primal  day  — 

Some  lofty  feelings  linger  still  — 

The  strength  to  dare,  the  nerve  to  meet 
Whatever  threatens  with  defeat 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


55 


Its  all-indomitable  will ! — 

But  lacks  the  mean  of  mind  and  heart, 
Though  eager  for  the  gains  of  crime, 

Oft,  at  this  chosen  place  and  time, 

The  strength  to  bear  this  evil  part ; 

And,  shielded  by  this  very  Vice, 

Escapes  from  Crime  by  Cowardice. 

Ruth  starts  erect  — with  bloodshot  eye. 

And  lips  drawn  tight  across  her  teeth, 
Showing  their  locked  embrace  beneath, 

In  the  red  fire-light : — “ Mo gg  must  die  ! 

Give  me  the  knife ! ” — The  outlaw  turns, 
Shuddering  in  heart  and  limb,  away  — 

But,  fitfully  there,  the  hearth-fire  burns, 

And  he  sees  on  the  wall  strange  shadows  play. 
A lifted  arm,  a tremulous  blade, 

Are  dimly  pictured,  in  light  and  shade, 

Plunging  down  in  the  darkness.  Hark,  thaJ 
cry ! 

Again  — and  again  — he  sees  it  fall  — 

That  shadowy  arm  down  the  lighted  wall ! 

He  hears  quick  footsteps  — a shape  flits  by ! — * 
The  door  on  its  rusted  hinges  creaks  : — 

“ Ruth  — daughter  Ruth  ! ” the  outiaw  shrieks, 
But  no  sound  comes  back  — he  is  standing  alom 
By  the  mangled  corse  of  Mogg  Megone  ! 


56 


MOGG  ME  GONE. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


PART  II. 

’Tis  morning  over  Norridgewock  — 

On  tree  and  wigwam,  wave  and  rock. 
Bathed  in  the  autumnal  sunshine,  stirred 
At  intervals  by  breeze  and  bird, 

And  wearing  all  the  hues  which  glow 
In  heaven’s  own  pure  and  perfect  bow. 

That  glorious  picture  of  the  air, 

Which  summer’s  light-robed  angel  forms 
On  the  dark  ground  of  fading  storms, 

With  pencil  dipped  in  sunbeams  there— * 
And,  stretching  out,  on  either  hand, 

O’er  all  that  wide  and  unshorn  land, 

Till,  weary  of  its  gorgeousness, 

The  aching  and  the  dazzled  eye 
Rests  gladdened,  on  the  calm  blue  sky  — 
Slumbers  the  mighty  wilderness ! 

The  oak,  upon  the  windy  hill, 

Its  dark  green  burthen  upward  heaves  — » 


MOGG  MEGONE.  57 

The  hemlock  broods  above  its  rill, 

Its  cone-like  foliage  darker  still, 

While  the  white  birch’s  graceful  stem. 
And  the  rough  walnut  bough  receives 
The  sun  upon  their  crowded  leaves, 

Each  colored  like  a topaz  gem ; 

And  the  tall  maple  wears  with  them 
The  coronal  which  autumn  gives, 

The  brief,  bright  sign  of  ruin  near. 

The  hectic  of  a dying  year  ! 

The  hermit  priest,  who  lingers  now 
On  the  Bald  Mountain’s  shrubless  brow. 
The  gray  and  thunder-smitten  pile 
Which  marks  afar  the  Desert  Isle,  20 
While  gazing  on  the  scene  below, 

May  half  forget  the  dreams  of  home, 

That  nightly  with  his  slumbers  come,  — - 
The  tranquil  skies  of  sunny  France, 

The  peasant’s  harvest  song  and  dance, 

The  vines  around  the  hill-sides  wreath- 
ing, 

The  soft  airs  midst  their  clusters  breath- 
ing, 

The  wings  which  dipped,  the  stars  which 
shone 

Within  thy  bosom,  blue  Garronne  ! 

And  round  the  Abbey’s  shadowed  wall. 

At  morning  spring  and  even-fall, 


58 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Sweet  voices  in  the  still  air  singing  — 
The  chant  of  many  a holy  hymn  — 

The  solemn  bell  of  vespers  ringing  — 
And  hallowed  torch-light  falling  dim 
On  pictured  saint  and  seraphim  ! 

For  here  beneath  him  lies  unrolled, 
Bathed  deep  in  morning’s  flood  of  gold, 
A vision  gorgeous  as  the  dream 
Of  the  beatified  may  seem, 

When,  as  his  Church’s  legends  say, 
Borne  upward  in  ecstatic  bliss, 

The  rapt  enthusiast  soars  away 
Unto  a brighter  world  than  this : 

A mortal’s  glimpse  beyond  the  pale  — 

A moment’s  lifting  of  the  veil ! 

Far  eastward  o’er  the  lovely  bay, 
Penobscot’s  clustered  wigwams  lay ; 

And  gently  from  that  Indian  town 
The  verdant  hill-side  slopes  adown, 

To  where  the  sparkling  waters  play 
Upon  the  yellow  sands  below ; 

And  shooting  round  the  winding  shores 
Of  narrow  capes,  and  isles  which  lie 
Slumbering  to  ocean’s  lullaby  — 

With  birchen  boat  and  glancing  oars, 

The  red  men  to  their  fishing  go ; 

While  from  their  planting  ground  is  borne 
The  treasure  of  the  golden  corn, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


59 


By  laughing  girls,  whose  dark  eyes  glow 
Wild  through  the  locks  which  o’er  them  flow. 
The  wrinkled  squaw,  whose  toil  is  done, 

Sits  on  her  bear-skin  in  the  sun, 

Watching  the  huskers,  with  a smile 
For  each  full  ear  which  swells  the  pile; 

And  the  old  chief,  who  never  more 
May  bend  the  bow  or  pull  the  oar, 

Smokes  gravely  in  his  wigwam  door, 

Or  slowly  shapes,  with  axe  of  stone, 

The  arrow-head  from  flint  and  bone. 

Beneath  the  westward  turning  eye 
A thousand  wooded  islands  lie  — 

Gems  of  the  waters ! — with  each  hue 
Of  brightness  set  in  ocean’s  blue. 

Each  bears  aloft  its  tuft  of  trees 
Touched  by  the  pencil  of  the  frost, 

And,  with  the  motion  of  each  breeze, 

A moment  seen  — a moment  lost  — 
Changing  and  blent,  confused  and  tossed* 
The  brighter  with  the  darker  crossed, 
Their  thousand  tints  of  beauty  glow 
Down  in  the  restless  waves  below, 

And  tremble  in  the  sunny  skies, 

As  if,  from  waving  bough  to  bough, 

Flitted  the  birds  of  paradise. 

There  sleep  Placentia’s  group  — and  there 
Pere  Breteaux  marks  the  hour  of  prayer ; 


6o 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


And  there,  beneath  the  sea-worn  cliff, 

On  which  the  Father’s  hut  is  seen, 

The  Indian  stays  his  rocking  skiff, 

And  peers  the  hemlock  boughs  between. 
Half  trembling,  as  he  seeks  to  look 
Upon  the  Jesuit’s  Cross  and  Book.21 
There,  gloomily  against  the  sky 
The  Dark  Isles  rear  their  summits  high  ; 
And  Desert  Rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 

Lifts  its  gray  turrets  in  the  air  — 

Seen  from  afar,  like  some  strong  hold 
Built  by  the  ocean  kings  of  old  ; 

And,  faint  as  smoke-wreath  white  and  thin, 
Swells  in  the  north  vast  Katadin  : 

And,  wandering  from  its  marshy  feet, 

The  broad  Penobscot  comes  to  meet 
And  mingle  with  his  own  bright  bay. 
Slow  sweep  his  dark  and  gathering  floods, 
Arched  over  by  the  ancient  woods, 

Which  Time,  in  those  dim  solitudes, 
Wielding  the  dull  axe  of  Decay, 

Alone  hath  ever  shorn  away. 

Not  thus,  within  the  woods  which  hide 
The  beauty  of  thy  azure  tide, 

And  with  their  falling  timbers  block 
Thy  brr  ken  currents,  Kennebeck  ! 

Gazes  t ae  white  man  on  the  wreck 

Of  the  down-trodden  Norridgewock  — 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


61 


In  one  lone  village  hemmed  at  length, 

In  battle  shorn  of  half  their  strength, 

Turned,  like  the  panther  in  his  lair, 

With  his  fast-flowing  life-blood  wet, 

For  one  last  struggle  of  despair, 

Wounded  and  faint,  but  tameless  yet ! 
Unreaped,  upon  the  planting  lands, 

The  scant,  neglected  harvest  stands : 

No  shout  is  there  — no  dance  — no  song : 

The  aspect  of  the  very  child 
Scowls  with  a meaning  sad  and  wild 
Of  bitterness  and  wrong. 

The  almost  infant  Norridgewock 
Essays  to  lift  the  tomahawk  ; 

And  plucks  his  father’s  knife  away, 

To  mimic,  in  his  frightful  play, 

The  scalping  of  an  English  foe  : 

Wreathes  on  his  lip  a horrid  smile, 

Burns,  like  a snake’s,  his  small  eye,  while 
Some  bough  or  sapling  meets  his  blow. 

The  fisher,  as  he  drops  his  line, 

Starts,  when  he  sees  the  hazels  quiver 
Along  the  margin  of  the  river, 

Looks  up  and  down  the  rippling  tide, 

And  grasps  the  firelock  at  his  side. 

For  Bomazeen22  from  Tacconock 
Has  sent  his  runners  to  Norridgewock, 

With  tidings  that  Moulton  and  Harmon  of 
York 


62 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Far  up  the  river  have  come  : 

They  have  left  their  boats  — they  have  entered 
the  wood, 

And  filled  the  depths  of  the  solitude 
With  the  sound  of  the  ranger’s  drum. 

On  the  brow  of  a hill,  which  slopes  to  meet 
The  flowing  river,  and  bathe  its  feet  — 

The  bare-washed  rock,  and  the  drooping 
grass, 

And  the  creeping  vine,  as  the  waters  pass  — 

A rude  and  unshapely  chapel  stands, 

Built  up  in  that  wild  by  unskilled  hands ; 

Yet  the  traveller  knows  it  a place  of  prayer, 

For  the  holy  sign  of  the  cross  is  there : 

And  should  he  chance  at  that  place  to  be, 

Of  a Sabbath  morn,  or  some  hallowed  day, 
When  prayers  are  made  and  masses  are  said, 
Some  for  the  living  and  some  for  the  dead, 

Well  might  that  traveller  start  to  see 
The  tall  dark  forms,  that  take  their  way 
From  the  birch  canoe,  on  the  river-shore, 

And  the  forest  paths,  to  that  chapel  door ; 

And  marvel  to  mark  the  naked  knees 
And  the  dusky  foreheads  bending  there, 
While,  in  coarse  white  vesture,  over  these 
In  blessing  or  in  prayer, 

Stretching  abroad  his  thin  pale  hands, 

Like  a shrouded  ghost,  the  Jesuit23  stands. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


6J 


Two  forms  are  now  in  that  chapel  dim, 

The  Jesuit,  silent  and  sad  and  pale, 
Anxiously  heeding  some  fearful  tale, 
Which  a stranger  is  telling  him. 

That  stranger’s  garb  is  soiled  and  torn, 

And  wet  with  dew  and  loosely  worn ; 

Her  fair  neglected  hair  falls  down 

O’er  cheeks  with  wind  and  sunshine  brown ; 

Yet  still,  in  that  disordered  face, 

The  Jesuit’s  cautious  eye  can  trace 
Those  elements  of  former  grace, 

Which,  half  effaced,  seem  scarcely  less, 
Even  now,  than  perfect  loveliness. 

With  drooping  head,  and  voice  so  low 
That  scarce  it  meets  the  Jesuit’s  ears  — 
While  through  her  clasp’d  fingers  flow, 

From  the  heart’s  fountain,  hot  and  slow, 

Her  penitential  tears  — 

She  tells  the  story  of  the  woe 
And  evil  of  her  years. 

“ O Father,  bear  with  me  ; my  heart 
Is  sick  and  death-like,  and  my  brain 
Seems  girdled  with  a fiery  chain, 

Whose  scorching  links  will  never  part, 

And  never  cool  again. 

Bear  with  me  while  I speak  — but  turn 
Away  that  gentle  eye,  the  while  — \ 


64 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


The  fires  of  guilt  more  fiercely  burn 
Beneath  its  holy  smile  ; 

For  half  I fancy  I can  see 
My  mother’s  sainted  look  in  thee. 


“ My  dear  lost  mother ! sad  and  pale. 
Mournfully  sinking  day  by  day, 

And  with  a hold  on  life  as  frail 

As  frosted  leaves,  that,  thin  and  gray. 
Hang  feebly  on  their  parent  spray. 

And  tremble  in  the  gale ; 

Yet  watching  o’er  my  childishness 
With  patient  fondness  — not  the  less 
For  all  the  agony  which  kept 
Her  blue  eye  wakeful,  while  I slept ; 

And  checking  every  tear  and  groan 
That  haply  might  have  waked  my  own ; 
And  bearing  still,  without  offence, 

My  idle  words,  and  petulance ; 

Reproving  with  a tear  — and,  while 
The  tooth  of  pain  was  keenly  preying 
Upon  her  very  heart,  repaying 
My  brief  repentance  with  a smile. 

“ Oh,  in  her  meek,  forgiving  eye 

There  was  a brightness  not  of  mirth  — 
A light,  whose  clear  intensity 
Was  borrowed  not  of  earth. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


65 


Along  her  cheek  a deepening  red 
Told  where  the  feverish  hectic  fed ; 

And  yet,  each  fatal  token  gave 
To  the  mild  beauty  of  her  face 
A newer  and  a dearer  grace, 
Unwarning  of  the  grave. 

’Twas  like  the  hue  which  autumn  gives 
To  yonder  changed  and  dying  leaves. 
Breathed  over  by  his  frosty  breath ; 
Scarce  can  the  gazer  feel  that  this 
Is  but  the  spoiler’s  treacherous  kiss, 
The  mocking-smile  of  Death  ! 


“ Sweet  were  the  tales  she  used  to  tell 
When  summer’s  eve  was  dear  to  us, 

And,  fading  from  the  darkening  dell, 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  fell 
On  wooded  Agamenticus,  — 

When,  sitting  by  our  cottage  wall, 

The  murmur  of  the  Saco’s  fall, 

And  the  south  wind’s  expiring  sighs 
Came,  softly  blending,  on  my  ear, 

With  the  low  tones  I loved  to  hear : 

Tales  of  the  pure  — the  good  — the  wise  — 
The  holy  men  and  maids  of  old, 

In  the  all-sacred  pages  told ; — 

Of  Rachel,  stooped  at  Haran’s  fountains, 
Amid  her  father’s  thirsty  flock, 


66 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Beautiful  to  her  kinsman  seeming 
As  the  bright  angels  of  his  dreaming. 
On  Padan-aran’s  holy  rock  ; 

Of  gentle  Ruth  — and  her  who  kept 
Her  awful  vigil  on  the  mountains, 

By  Israel’s  virgin  daughters  wept ; 

Of  Miriam,  with  her  maidens,  singing 
The  song  for  grateful  Israel  meet, 
While  every  crimson  wave  was  bringing 
The  spoils  of  Egypt  at  her  feet ; 

Of  her  — Samaria’s  humble  daughter, 
Who  paused  to  hear,  beside  her  well, 
Lessons  of  love  and  truth,  which  fell 
Softly  as  Shiloh’s  flowing  water; 

And  saw,  beneath  his  pilgrim  guise, 
The  Promised  One,  so  long  foretold 
By  holy  seer  and  bard  of  old, 

Revealed  before  her  wondering  eyes  ! 

“ Slowly  she  faded.  Day  by  day 
Her  step  grew  weaker  in  our  hall, 

And  fainter,  at  each  even-fall, 

Her  sad  voice  died  away. 

Yet  on  her  thin,  pale  lip,  the  while, 

Sat  Resignation’s  holy  smile : 

And  even  my  father  checked  his  tread, 
And  hushed  his  voice,  beside  her  bed : 
Beneath  the  calm  and  sad  rebuke 
Of  her  meek  eye’s  imploring  look, 

The  scowl  of  hate  his  brow  forsook, 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


67 


And,  in  his  stern  and  gloomy  eye, 

At  times,  a few  unwonted  tears 
Wet  the  dark  lashes,  which  for  years 
Hatred  and  pride  had  kept  so  dry. 

“ Calm  as  a child  to  slumber  soothed, 

As  if  an  angel’s  hand  had  smoothed 
The  still,  white  features  into  rest, 

Silent  and  cold,  without  a breath 
To  stir  the  drapery  on  her  breast. 

Pain,  with  its  keen  and  poisoned  fang, 
The  horror  of  the  mortal  pang, 

The  suffering  look  her  brow  had  worn, 
The  fear,  the  strife,  the  anguish  gone  — <* 
She  slept  at  last  in  death ! 

“ Oh,  tell  me,  father,  can  the  dead 
Walk  on  the  earth,  and  look  on  us, 

And  lay  upon  the  living’s  head 
Their  blessing  or  their  curse? 

For,  oh,  last  night  she  stood  by  me, 

As  I lay  beneath  the  woodland  tree  ! ” 

The  Jesuit  crosses  himself  in  awe  — 

“ Jesu  ! what  was  it  my  daughter  saw?  ” 

“ She  came  to  me  last  night. 

The  dried  leaves  did  not  feel  her  tread ; 
She  stood  by  me  in  the  wan  moonlight, 

In  the  white  robes  of  the  dead  \ 


68 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Pale,  and  very  mournfully 
She  bent  her  light  form  over  me. 

I heard  no  sound,  I felt  no  breath 
Breathe  o’er  me  from  that  face  of  death  s 
Its  blue  eyes  rested  on  my  own, 

Rayless  and  cold  as  eyes  of  stone  ; 

Yet,  in  their  fixed,  unchanging  gaze, 
Something,  which  spoke  of  early  days  — - 
A sadness  in  their  quiet  glare, 

As  if  love’s  smile  were  frozen  there  — 
Came  o’er  me  with  an  icy  thrill ; 

Oh  God  ! I feel  its  presence  still ! ” 

The  Jesuit  makes  the  holy  sign  — 

“ How  passed  the  vision,  daughter  mine? 

“ All  dimly  in  the  wan  moonshine, 

As  a wreath  of  mist  will  twist  and  twine,. 
And  scatter,  and  melt  into  the  light  — 

So  scattering — melting  on  my  sight,. 

The  pale,  cold  vision  passed ; 

But  those  sad  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine 
Mournfully  to  the  last.” 

“ God  help  thee,  daughter,  tell  me  why 
That  spirit  passed  before  thine  eye  ! ” 

“ Father,  I know  not,  save  it  be 
That  deeds  of  mine  have  summoned  her 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


69 


From  the  unbreathing  sepulchre, 

To  leave  her  last  rebuke  with  me. 

Ah,  woe  for  me  ! my  mother  died 
Just  at  the  moment  when  I stood 
Close  on  the  verge  of  womanhood, 

A child  in  everything  beside ; 

And  when  my  wild  heart  needed  most 
Her  gentle  counsels,  they  were  lost. 

44  My  father  lived  a stormy  life, 

Of  frequent  change  and  daily  strife ; 

And  — God  forgive  him  ! left  his  child 
To  feel,  like  him,  a freedom  wild ; 

To  love  the  red  man’s  dwelling  place, 

The  birch  boat  on  his  shaded  floods, 

The  wild  excitement  of  the  chase 
Sweeping  the  ancient  woods, 

The  camp-fire,  blazing  on  the  shore 

Of  the  still  lakes,  the  clear  stream,  where 
The  idle  fisher  sets  his  wear, 

Or  angles  in  the  shade,  far  more 
Than  that  restraining  awe  I felt 
Beneath  my  gentle  mother’s  care, 

When  nightly  at  her  knee  I knelt, 

With  childhood’s  simple  prayer. 

“ There  came  a change.  The  wild,  glad  mood 
Of  unchecked  freedom  passed. 

Amid  the  ancient  solitude 


7° 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


Of  unshorn  grass  and  waving  wood, 

And  waters  glancing  bright  and  fast, 

A softened  voice  was  in  my  ear, 

Sweet  as  those  lulling  sounds  and  fine 
The  hunter  lifts  his  head  to  hear, 

Now  far  and  faint,  now  full  and  near  — 

The  murmur  of  the  wind-swept  pine. 

A manly  form  was  ever  nigh, 

A bold,  free  hunter,  with  an  eye 

Whose  dark,  keen  glance  had  power  to  wake 
Both  fear  and  love  — to  awe  and  charm  ; 

’Twas  as  the  wizard  rattlesnake, 

Whose  evil  glances  lure  to  harm  — 

Whose  cold  and  small  and  glittering  eye, 

And  brilliant  coil,  and  changing  dye, 

Draw,  step  by  step,  the  gazer  near, 

With  drooping  wing  and  cry  of  fear, 

Yet  powerless  all  to  turn  away, 

A conscious,  but  a willing  prey! 

Fear,  doubt,  thought,  life  itself,  ere  long 
Merged  in  one  feeling  deep  and  strong. 

Faded  the  world  which  I had  known, 

A poor  vain  shadow,  cold  and  waste, 

In  the  warm  present  bliss  alone 
Seemed  I of  actual  life  to  taste. 

Fond  longings  dimly  understood, 

The  glow  of  passion’s  quickening  blood, 

And  cherished  fantasies  which  press 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


7* 


The  young  lip  with  a dream’s  caress,  — 

The  heart’s  forecast  and  prophecy 
Took  form  and  life  before  my  eye, 

Seen  in  the  glance  which  met  my  own, 

Heard  in  the  soft  and  pleading  tone, 

Felt  in  the  arms  around  me  cast, 

And  warm  heart-pulses  beating  fast. 

Ah ! scarcely  yet  to  God  above 
With  deeper  trust,  with  stronger  love, 

Has  prayerful  saint  his  meek  heart  lent, 

Or  cloistered  nun  at  twilight  bent, 

Than  I,  before  a human  shrine, 

As  mortal  and  as  frail  as  mine, 

With  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind,  and  form, 
Knelt  madly  to  a fellow  worm. 

“ Full  soon,  upon  that  dream  of  sin, 

An  awful  light  came  bursting  in. 

The  shrine  was  cold  at  which  I knelt ; 

The  idol  of  that  shrine  was  gone ; 

A humbled  thing  of  shame  and  guilt, 

Outcast,  and  spurned  and  lone, 

Wrapt  in  the  shadows  of  my  crime, 

With  withering  heart  and  burning  brain. 
And  tears  that  fell  like  fiery  rain, 

I passed  a fearful  time. 

“ There  came  a voice  — it  checked  the  tear  — 
In  heart  and  soul  it  wrought  a change  ; — 


72 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


My  father’s  voice  was  in  my  ear ; 

It  whispered  of  revenge  ! 

A new  and  fiercer  feeling  swept 
All  lingering  tenderness  away  ; 

And  tiger  passions,  which  had  slept 
In  childhood’s  better  day, 

Unknown,  unfelt,  arose  at  length 
In  all  their  own  demoniac  strength. 

“ A youthful  warrior  of  the  wild, 

By  words  deceived,  by  smiles  beguiled, 

Of  crime  the  cheated  instrument, 

Upon  our  fatal  errands  went. 

Through  camp  and  town  and  wilderness 
He  tracked  his  victim  ; and,  at  last, 

Just  when  the  tide  of  hate  had  passed, 

And  milder  thoughts  came  warm  and  fast, 
Exulting,  at  my  feet  he  cast 
The  bloody  token  of  success. 

“ Oh  God  ! with  what  an  awful  power 
I saw  the  buried  past  uprise, 

And  gather,  in  a single  hour, 

Its  ghost-like  memories ! 

And  then  I felt  — alas  ! too  late  — 

That  underneath  the  mask  of  hate, 

That  shame  and  guilt  and  wrong  had  thrown 
O’er  feelings  which  they  might  not  own, 

The  heart’s  wild  love  had  known  no  change ; 
And  still,  that  deep  and  hidden  love, 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


73 


With  its  first  fondness,  wept  above 
The  victim  of  its  own  revenge ! 

There  lay  the  fearful  scalp,  and  there 
The  blood  was  on  its  pale  brown  hair ! 
f thought  not  of  the  victim’s  scorn, 

I thought  not  of  his  baleful  guile, 

My  deadly  wrong,  my  outcast  name, 

The  characters  of  sin  and  shame 
On  heart  and  forehead  drawn ; 

I only  saw  that  victim’s  smile  — 

The  still,  green  places  where  we  met  — 

The  moon-lit  branches,  dewy  wet ; 

I only  felt,  I only  heard 

The  greeting  and  the  parting  word  — 

The  smile  — the  embrace  — the  tone,  which  made 
An  Eden  of  the  forest  shade. 

4i  And  oh,  with  what  a loathing  eye, 

With  what  a deadly  bate,  and  deep, 

I saw  that  Indian  murderer  lie 
Before  me,  in  his  drunken  sleep  ! 

What  though  for  me  the  deed  was  done, 

And  words  of  mine  had  sped  him  on ! 

Yet  when  he  murmured,  as  he  slept, 

The  horrors  of  that  deed  of  blood, 

The  tide  of  utter  madness  swept 
O’er  brain  and  bosom,  like  a flood. 

And,  father,  with  this  hand  of  mine  ” — 

“ Ha  ’ what  didst  thou  ? ” the  Jesuit  cries. 


74 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Shuddering,  as  smitten  with  sudden  pain, 
And  shading,  with  one  thin  hand,  his  eyes. 
With  the  other  he  makes  the  holy  sign  — 

“ I smote  him  as  I would  a worm ; — 

With  heart  as  steeled  — with  nerves  as  firm : 
He  never  woke  again  ! ” 

“Woman  of  sin  and  blood  and  shame, 

Speak  — I would  know  that  victim’s  name.” 

“ Father,”  she  gasped,  “ a chieftain,  known 
As  Saco’s  Sachem  — Mogg  Megone  ! ” 

Pale  priest ! What  proud  and  lofty  dreams, 
What  keen  desires,  what  cherished  schemes, 
What  hopes,  that  time  may  not  recall, 

Are  darkened  by  that  chieftain’s  fall ! 

Was  he  not  pledged,  by  cross  and  vow, 

To  lift  the  hatchet  of  his  sire, 

And,  round  his  own,  the  Church’s  foe, 

To  light  the  avenging  fire  ? 

Who  now  the  Tarrantine  shall  wake, 

For  thine  and  for  the  Church’s  sake  ? 

Who  summon  to  the  scene 
Of  conquest  and  unsparing  strife, 

And  vengeance  dearer  than  his  life, 

The  fiery-souled  Castine  ?24 
Three  backward  steps  the  Jesuit  takes  — 

His  long,  thin  frame  as  ague  shakes : 


“ Each  small,  bright  lake  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill.” 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


75 


And  loathing  hate  is  in  his  eye, 

As  from  his  lips  these  words  of  fear 
Fall  hoarsely  on  the  maiden’s  ear  — 

“ The  soul  that  sinneth  shall  surely  die  ! ” 

She  stands,  as  stands  the  stricken  deer, 
Checked  midway  in  the  fearful  chase, 

When  bursts,  upon  his  eye  and  ear, 

The  gaunt,  gray  robber,  baying  near, 

Between  him  and  his  hiding  place ; 

While  still  behind,  with  yell  and  blow, 
Sweeps,  like  a storm,  the  coming  foe. 

“ Save  me,  O holy  man  ! ” — her  cry 
Fills  all  the  void,  as  if  a tongue, 

Unseen,  from  rib  and  rafter  hung, 

Thrilling  with  mortal  agony  ; 

Her  hands  are  clasping  the  Jesuit’s  knee, 

And  her  eye  looks  fearfully  into  his  own ; — 
“ Off,  woman  of  sin  ! — nay,  touch  not  me 
With  those  fingers  of  blood  ; — begone  ! ” 
With  a gesture  of  horror,  he  spurns  the  form 
That  writhes  at  his  feet  like  a trodden  worm. 

Ever  thus  the  spirit  must, 

Guilty  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 

With  a keener  woe  be  riven, 

For  its  weak  and  sinful  trust 
In  the  strength  of  human  dust ; 

And  its  anguish  thrill  afresh, 

For  each  vain  reliance  given 
To  the  failing  arm  of  flesh. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


PART  III. 

Ah,  weary  priest ! — with  pale  hands  pressed 
On  thy  throbbing  brow  of  pain, 

Baffled  in  thy  life-long  quest, 

Overworn  with  toiling  vain, 

How  ill  thy  troubled  musings  fit 
The  holy  quiet  of  a breast 
With  the  Dove  of  Peace  at  rest, 

Sweetly  brooding  over  it. 

Thoughts  are  thine  which  have  no  part 
With  the  meek  and  pure  of  heart, 
Undisturbed  by  outward  things, 

Resting  in  the  heavenly  shade, 

By  the  overspreading  wings 
Of  the  blessed  Spirit  made. 

Thoughts  of  strife  and  hate  and  wrong 
Sweep  thy  heated  brain  along  — 

Fading  hopes,  for  whose  success 
It  were  sin  to  breathe  a prayer ; — 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


77 


Schemes  which  heaven  may  never  bless  — 
Fears  which  darken  to  despair. 

Hoary  priest ! thy  dream  is  done 
Of  a hundred  red  tribes  won 
To  the  pale  of  Holy  Church  ; 

And  the  heretic  o’erthrown, 

And  his  name  no  longer  known, 

And  thy  weary  brethren  turning, 

Joyful  from  their  years  of  mourning, 

’Twixt  the  altar  and  the  porch. 

Hark  ! what  sudden  sound  is  heard 
In  the  wood  and  in  the  sky, 

Shriller  than  the  scream  of  bird  — 

Than  the  trumpet’s  clang  more  high ! 
Every  wolf-cave  of  the  hills  — 

Forest  arch  and  mountain  gorge, 

Rock  and  dell  and  river  verge  — 

With  an  answering  echo  thrills. 

Well  does  the  Jesuit  know  that  cry. 

Which  summons  the  Norridgewock  to  die, 
And  tells  that  the  foe  of  his  flock  is  nigh. 
He  listens,  and  hears  the  rangers  come, 
With  loud  hurra,  and  jar  of  drum, 

And  hurrying  feet  (for  the  chase  is  hot), 
And  the  short,  sharp  sound  of  rifle  shot, 
And  taunt  and  menace  — answered  well 
By  the  Indians’  mocking  cry  and  yell  — 

The  bark  of  dogs  — the  squaw’s  mad 
scream  — 


78 


MOGG  ME  GONE, 


The  dash  of  paddles  along  the  stream  — 
The  whistle  of  shot  as  it  cuts  the  leaves 
Of  the  maples  around  the  church’s  eaves  — 
And  the  gride  of  hatchets,  fiercely  thrown, 
On  wigwam-log  and  tree  and  stone. 

Black  with  the  grime  of  paint  and  dust, 
Spotted  and  streaked  with  human  gore, 
A grim  and  naked  head  is  thrust 
Within  the  chapel  door. 

“ Ha  — Bomazeen  ! — In  God’s  name  say, 
What  mean  these  sounds  of  bloody  fray  ? ” 
Silent,  the  Indian  points  his  hand 
To  where  across  the  echoing  glen 
Sweep  Harmon’s  dreaded  ranger-band, 

And  Moulton  with  his  men. 

“ Where  are  thy  warriors  Bomazeen  ? 
Where  are  De  Rouville25  and  Castine, 

And  where  the  braves  of  Sawga’s  queen  ? ” 
“ Let  my  father  find  the  winter  snow 
Which  the  sun  drank  up  long  moons  ago ! 
Under  the  falls  of  Tacconock, 

The  wolves  are  eating  the  Norridgewock ; 
Castine  with  his  wives  lies  closely  hid 
Like  a fox  in  the  woods  of  Pemaquid ! 

On  Sawga’s  banks  the  man  of  war 
Sits  in  his  wigwam  like  a squaw  — 
Squando  has  fled,  and  Mogg  Megone, 
Struck  by  the  knife  of  Sagamore  John, 

Lies  stiff  and  stark  and  cold  as  a stone.” 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


79 


Fearfully  over  the  Jesuit’s  face, 

Of  a thousand  thoughts,  trace  after  trace, 

Like  swift  cloud-shadows,  each  other  chase. 

One  instant,  his  fingers  grasp  his  knife, 

For  a last  vain  struggle  for  cherished  life  — 

The  next,  he  hurls  the  blade  away, 

And  kneels  at  his  altar’s  foot  to  pray ; 

Over  his  beads  his  fingers  stray,. 

And  he  kisses  the  cross,  and  calls  aloud 
On  the  Virgin  and  her  Son ; 

For  terrible  thoughts  his  memory  crowd 
Of  evil  seen  and  done  — 

Of  scalps  brought  home  by  his  savage  flock 
From  Casco  and  Sawga  and  Sagadahock, 

In  the  Church’s  service  won. 

No  shrift  the  gloomy  savage  brooks, 

As  scowling  on  the  priest  he  looks  : 

“ Cowesass — cowesass  — tawich  wessaseen?26 
Let  my  father  look  upon  Bomazeen  — 

My  father’s  heart  is  the  heart  of  a squaw, 

But  mine  is  so  hard  that  it  does  not  thaw : 

Let  my  father  ask  his  God  to  make 

A dance  and  a feast  for  a great  Sagamore, 
When  he  paddles  across  the  western  lake 

With  his  dogs  and  his  squaws  to  the  spirit’s 
shore. 

Cowesass  — cowesass  — tawhich  wessaseen? 

Let  my  father  die  like  Bomazeen  ! ” 


So 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Through  the  chapel’s  narrow  doors, 

And  through  each  window  in  the  walls, 
Round  the  priest  and  warrior  pours 
The  deadly  shower  of  English  balls. 
Low  on  his  cross  the  Jesuit  falls ; 

While  at  his  side  the  Norridgewock, 

With  failing  breath,  essays  to  mock 
And  menace  yet  the  hated  foe  — 

Shakes  his  scalp-trophies  to  and  fro 
Exultingly  before  their  eyes  — 

Till,  cleft  and  torn  by  shot  and  blow, 
Defiant  still,  he  dies. 

“ So  fare  all  eaters  of  the  frog  ! 

Death  to  the  Babylonish  dog ! 

Down  with  the  beast  of  Rome  ! ” 

With  shouts  like  these,  around  the  dead, 
Unconscious  on  his  bloody  bed, 

The  rangers  crowding  come. 

Brave  men  ! the  dead  priest  cannot  hear 
The  unfeeling  taunt  — the  brutal  jeer ; — 
Spurn  — for  he  sees  ye  not  — in  wrath, 
The  symbol  of  your  Saviour’s  death  ; — 
Tear  from  his  death-grasp,  in  your  zeal, 
And  trample,  as  a thing  accursed, 

The  cross  he  cherished  in  the  dust : 

The  dead  man  cannot  feel ! 

Brutal  alike  in  deed  and  word, 

With  callous  heart  and  hand  of  strife, 


MOGG  MEGONE . 


81 


How  like  a fiend  may  man  be  made, 
Plying  the  foul  and  monstrous  trade 
Whose  harvest-field  is  human  life, 
Whose  sickle  is  the  reeking  sword  ! 
Quenching,  with  reckless  hand,  in  blood. 
Sparks  kindled  by  the  breath  of  God ; 
Urging  the  deathless  soul,  unshriven, 

Of  open  guilt  or  secret  sin, 

Before  the  bar  of  that  pure  Heaven 
The  holy  only  enter  in  ! 

Oh  ! by  the  widow’s  sore  distress, 

The  orphan’s  wailing  wretchedness. 

By  Virtue  struggling  in  the  accursed 
Embraces  of  polluting  Lust, 

By  the  fell  discord  of  the  Pit, 

And  the  pained  souls  that  people  it, 

And  by  the  blessed  peace  which  fills 
The  Paradise  of  God  forever, 

Resting  on  all  its  holy  hills, 

And  flowing  with  its  crystal  river  — 

Let  Christian  hands  no  longer  bear 
In  triumph  on  his  crimson  car 
The  foul  and  idol  god  of  war ; 

No  more  the  purple  wreaths  prepare 
To  bind  amid  his  snaky  hair ; 

Nor  Christian  bards  his  glories  tell, 

Nor  Christian  tongues  his  praises  swell. 

Through  the  gun-smoke  wreathing  white, 
Glimpses  on  the  soldiers’  sight 


82 


MOGG  MEG  ONE. 


A thing  of  human  shape  I ween, 

For  a moment  only  seen, 

With  its  loose  hair  backward  streaming, 
And  its  eyeballs  madly  gleaming, 
Shrieking,  like  a soul  in  pain, 

From  the  world  of  light  and  breath, 
Hurrying  to  its  place  again, 

Spectre-like  it  vanisheth  ! 

Wretched  girl ! one  eye  alone 
Notes  the  way  which  thou  hast  gone. 
That  great  Eye,  which  slumbers  never, 
Watching  o’er  a lost  world  ever, 

Tracks  thee  over  vale  and  mountain, 

By  the  gushing  forest-fountain, 

Plucking  from  the  vine  its  fruit, 
Searching  for  the  ground-nut’s  root, 
Peering  in  the  she  wolf’s  den, 

Wading  through  the  marshy  fen, 

Where  the  sluggish  water-snake 
Basks  beside  the  sunny  brake, 

Coiling  in  his  slimy  bed, 

Smooth  and  cold  against  thy  tread  — 
Purposeless,  thy  mazy  way 
Threading  through  the  lingering  day. 
And  at  night  securely  sleeping 
Where  the  dogwood’s  dews  are  weeping ! 
Still,  though  earth  and  man  discard  thee, 
Doth  thy  heavenly  Father  guard  thee,  — 


MOGG  ME G ONE. 


83 


He  who  spared  the  guilty  Cain, 
Even  when  a brother’s  blood, 
Crying  in  the  ear  of  God, 

Gave  the  earth  its  primal  stain  — 
He  whose  mercy  ever  liveth, 

Who  repenting  guilt  forgiveth, 

And  the  broken  heart  receiveth  ; — 
Wanderer  of  the  wilderness, 

Haunted,  guilty,  crazed  and  wild, 
He  regardeth  thy  distress, 

And  careth  for  his  sinful  child  ! 


’Tis  springtime  on  the  eastern  hills  ! 

Like  torrent  gush  the  summer  rills ; 
Through  winter’s  moss  and  dry  dead  leaves 
The  bladed  grass  revives  and  lives, 

Pushes  the  mouldering  waste  away, 

And  glimpses  to  the  April  day. 

In  kindly  shower  and  sunshine  bud 
The  branches  of  the  dull  gray  wood ; 

Out  from  its  sunned  and  sheltered  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks ; 

The  south-west  wind  is  warmly  blowing, 
And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 

The  pine-tree  and  the  sassafras, 

Are  with  it  on  its  errands  going. 

A band  is  marching  through  the  wood 
Where  rolls  the  Kennebec  his  flood  — 


84 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


The  warriors  of  the  wilderness, 

Painted,  and  in  their  battle  dress; 

And  with  them  one  whose  bearded  cheek, 
And  white  and  wrinkled  brow,  bespeak 
A wanderer  from  the  shores  of  France. 
A few  long  locks  of  scattering  snow 
Beneath  a battered  morion  flow, 

And  from  the  rivets  of  the  vest 
Which'girds  in  steel  his  ample  breast, 
The  slanted  sunbeams  glance. 

In  the  harsh  outlines  of  his  face 
Passion  and  sin  have  left  their  trace ; 

Yet,  save  worn  brow  and  thin  gray  hair, 
No  signs  of  weary  age  are  there. 

His  step  is  firm,  his  eye  is  keen, 

Nor  years  in  broil  and  battle  spent, 

Nor  toil,  nor  wounds,  nor  pain  have  bent 
The  lordly  frame  of  old  Castine. 

No  purpose  now  of  strife  and  blood 
Urges  the  hoary  veteran  on  : 

The  fire  of  conquest,  and  the  mood 
Of  chivalry  have  gone. 

A mournful  task  is  his — to  lay 

Within  the  earth  the  bones  of  those 
Who  perished  in  that  fearful  day, 

When  Norridgewock  became  the  prey 
Of  all  unsparing  foes. 

Sadly  and  still,  dark  thoughts  between, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


*5 


Of  coming  vengeance  mused  Castine, 

Of  the  fallen  chieftain  Bomazeen, 

Who  bade  for  him  the  Norridgewocks 
Dig  up  their  buried  tomahawks 
For  firm  defence  or  swift  attack; 

And  him  whose  friendship  formed  the  tie 
Which  held  the  stern  self-exile  back 
From  lapsing  into  savagery; 

Whose  garb  and  tone  and  kindly  glance 
Recalled  a younger,  happier  day, 

And  prompted  memory's  fond  essay, 

To  bridge  the  mighty  waste  which  lay, 
Between  his  wild  home  and  that  gray, 

Tall  chateau  of  his  native  France, 

Whose  chapel  bell,  with  far-heard  din 
Ushered  his  birth  hour  gayly  in, 

And  counted  with  its  solemn  toll 
The  masses  for  his  father’s  soul. 

Hark  ! from  the  foremost  of  the  band 
Suddenly  bursts  the  Indian  yell ; 

For  now  on  the  very  spot  they  stand 
Where  the  Norridgewocks  fighting  fell. 

No  wigwam  smoke  is  curling  there ; 

The  very  earth  is  scorched  and  bare : 

And  they  pause  and  listen  to  catch  a sound 
Of  breathing  life  — but  there  comes  not  one, 
Save  the  fox’s  bark  and  the  rabbit’s  bound ; 

But  here  and  there,  on  the  blackened  ground, 
White  bones  are  glistening  in  the  sun. 


86 


MOGG  MEG  ONE. 


And  where  the  house  of  prayer  arose, 

And  the  holy  hymn,  at  daylight’s  close, 

And  the  aged  priest  stood  up  to  bless 
The  children  of  the  wilderness, 

There  is  naught  save  ashes  sodden  and  dank ; 
And  the  birchen  boats  of  the  Norridgewock, 
Tethered  to  tree  and  stump  and  rock, 

Rotting  along  the  river  bank  ! 

Blessed  Mary  ! — who  is  she 
Leaning  against  that  maple-tree  ? 

The  sun  upon  her  face  burns  hot, 

But  the  fixed  eyelid  moveth  not ; 

The  squirrel’s  chirp  is  shrill  and  clear 
From  the  dry  bough  above  her  ear ; 

Dashing  from  rock  and  root  its  spray, 

Close  at  her  feet  the  river  rushes  ; 

The  blackbird’s  wing  against  her  brushes, 
And  sweetly  through  the  hazel  bushes 
The  robin’s  mellow  music  gushes  ; — 

God  save  her ! will  she  sleep  alway  ? 

Castine  hath  bent  him  over  the  sleeper : 

“ Wake,  daughter  — wake  ! ” — but  she  stirs 
no  limb : 

The  eye  that  looks  on  him  is  fixed  and  dim ; 
And  the  sleep  she  is  sleeping  shall  be  no  deeper, 
Until  the  angel’s  oath  is  said, 

And  the  final  blast  of  the  trump  goes  forth 
To  the  graves  of  the  sea  and  the  graves  of  earth. 
Ruth  Bonython  is  dead  ! 


THE  ME  RR I MACK. 


87 


LEGENDARY. 


THE  MERRIMACK. 

Stream  of  my  fathers ! 27  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill ; 

Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them  smile. 
I see  the  winding  Powow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold* 

And  following  down  its  wavy  line, 

Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 
There’s  not  a tree  upon  thy  side, 

Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 
As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  water-mark  ; 

No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 

No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current ; not  a sail 
Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale ; 

No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 

Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores  ; 


88 


THE  ME RR /MACH. 


Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 

Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 

But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 

Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 

Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 

Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 

And  Salisbury’s  beach  of  shining  sand, 

And  yonder  island’s  wave-smoothed  strand, 
Saw  the  adventurer’s  tiny  sail 
Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale ; 28 
And  o’er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 
The  cheer  from  Britain’s  hearts  of  oak, 

As  brightly  on  the  voyager’s  eye, 

Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 

Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 

The  Merrimack  rolled  down  his  flood ; 
Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook, 

Which  channels  vast  Agioochook 
When  springtime’s  sun  and  shower  unlock 
The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 

And  more  abundant  waters  given 
From  that  pure  lake,  “ The  Smile  of  Heaven,” 
Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain  side  — 
With  ocean’s  dark,  eternal  tide! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 

Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 

The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 


THE  MERRIMACK. 


89 


Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England’s  battle-flag  ; 

And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
Saint  George’s  crimson  cross  unrolled. 

Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare. 

And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 

He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story ; 30 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam’s  daughters, 
Whose  harems  look  on  Stamboul’s  waters  — 
Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 
The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o’er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain. 
And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look  ! — the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant  shore ; 
And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells. 

From  Ocean’s  bosom,  white  and  thin 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in  ; 

Hills,  woods,  the  river’s  rocky  rim, 

Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim, 

While  yonder  lonely  coast-light  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 

Half  quenched,  a beamless  star  and  pale. 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 


9° 


THE  MERRIMACK. 


Home  of  my  fathers  ! — I have  stood 
Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood : 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fadei 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade  ; 

Looked  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata’s  silver  streak  ; 

Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk’s  softly  winding  stream ; 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through  broad  Potomac’s  hem  of  pine ; 
And  autumn’s  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o’er  the  Susquehanna  ; 

Yet,  wheresoe’er  his  step  might  be, 

Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to  thee : 
Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river’s  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 

The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore  ; 

And  saw  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 
And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 

Thy  sunset  scenes  before  him  pass ; 

As,  in  Agrippa’s  magic  glass, 

The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered  groves  in  greenness  grew. 
Bathed  still  in  childhood’s  morning  dew, 
Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty  swept 
Whatever  Memory’s  mourners  wept, 
Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel  kept, 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long  had  slept 


THE  NORSEMEN. 


And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  dear  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown  — 
A phantom  and  a dream  alone  ! 


THE  NORSEMEN. 

Gift  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past ! 

A relic  to  the  present  cast ; 

Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 
Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 

Which  wastes  beneath  the  steady  chime 
And  beating  of  the  waves  of  Time  ! 

Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 
First  wrenched  thy  dark,  unshapely  block 
Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  untaught, 
Thy  rude  and  savage  outline  wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  my  native  stream 
Are  glancing  in  the  sun’s  warm  beam : 
From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing  oar 
The  circles  widen  to  its  shore ; 

And  cultured  field  and  peopled  town 
Slope  to  its  willowed  margin  down. 

Yet,  while  this  morning  breeze  is  bringing 
The  mellow  sound  of  church-bells  ringing. 
And  rolling  wheel,  and  rapid  jar 


92 


THE  NORSEMEN. 


Of  the  fire-winged  and  steedless  car, 

And  voices  from  the  wayside  near 
Come  quick  and  blended  on  my  ear, 

A spell  is  in  this  old  gray  stone  — 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Past  alone  ! 

A change  ! — The  steepled  town  no  more 
Stretches  along  the  sail-thronged  shore  ; 

Like  palace-domes  in  sunset’s  cloud, 

Fade  sun-gilt  spire  and  mansion  proud ! 
Spectrally  rising  where  they  stood, 

I see  the  old,  primeval  wood : 

Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 
I see  its  solemn  waste  expand : 

It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured  hill, 

It  arches  o’er  the  valley’s  rill ; 

And  leans  from  cliff  and  crag,  to  throw 
Its  wild  arms  o’er  the  stream  below. 
Unchanged,  alone,  the  same  bright  river 
Flows  on,  as  it  will  flow  forever ! 

I listen,  and  I hear  the  low 
Soft  ripple  where  its  waters  go ; 

I hear  behind  the  panther’s  cry, 

The  wild  bird’s  scream  goes  thrilling  by, 

And  shyly  on  the  river’s  brink 
The  deer  is  stooping  down  to  drink. 

But  hark  ! — from  wood  and  rock  flung  back, 
What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimack  ? 


THE  NORSEMEN. 


93 


What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which  throw 
The  light  spray  from  each  rushing  prow  ? 
Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea’s  blast 
Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining  mast  ? 
Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule’s  night  has  shone  upon  ; 

Flapped  by  the  sea-wind’s  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift,  and  headland  steep. 

Wild  Jutland’s  wives  and  Lochlin’s  daughters 
Have  watched  them  fading  o'er  the  waters, 
Lessening  through  driving  mist  and  spray, 
Like  white-winged  sea-birds  on  their  way  1 

Onward  they  glide  — and  now  I view 
Their  iron-armed  and  stalwart  crew ; 

Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue  eye, 

Turned  to  green  earth  and  summer  sky: 

Each  broad,  seamed  breast  has  cast  aside 
Its  cumbering  vest  of  shaggy  hide  ; 

Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm  air, 

Streams  back  the  Norsemen’s  yellow  hair. 

I see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 

The  sound  of  smitten  shields  I hear, 

Keeping  a harsh  and  fitting  time 
To  Saga’s  chant,  and  Runic  rhyme ; 

Such  lays  as  Zetland’s  Skald  has  sung. 

His  gray  and  naked  isles  among ; 

Or  muttered  low  at  midnight  hour 
Round  Odin’s  mossy  stone  of  power. 


94 


THE  NORSEMEN. 


The  wolf  beneath  the  Arctic  moon 
Has  answered  to  that  startling  rune ; 

The  Gael  has  heard  its  stormy  swell, 

The  light  Frank  knows  its  summons  well 

Iona’s  sable-stoled  Culdee 

Has  heard  it  sounding  o’er  the  sea, 

And  swept  with  hoary  beard  and  hair 
His  altar’s  foot  in  trembling  prayer ! 

’Tis  past — the  ’wildering  vision  dies 
In  darkness  on  my  dreaming  eyes ! 

The  forest  vanishes  in  air  — 

Hill-slope  and  vale  lie  starkly  bare ; 

I hear  the  common  tread  of  men, 

And  hum  of  work-day  life  again  : 

The  mystic  relic  seems  alone 
A broken  mass  of  common  stone ; 

And  if  it  be  the  chiselled  limb 
Of  Berserker  or  idol  grim  — 

A fragment  of  Valhalla’s  Thor, 

The  stormy  Viking’s  god  of  War, 

Or  Praga  of  the  Runic  lay, 

Or  love  awakening  Siona, 

I know  not  — for  no  graven  line, 

Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 

Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 
Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 

Yet,  for  this  vision  of  the  Past, 

This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 


CASSANDRA  SOUTH  WICK,  95 


My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 
Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 

Who  fashioned  so  the  human  mind, 

That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  behind 
A simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 

Can  summon  the  departed  forth  ; 

Quicken  the  Past  to  life  again  — 

The  Present  lose  in  what  hath  been, 

And  in  their  primal  freshness  show 
The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 

As  if  a portion  of  that  Thought 
By  which  the  Eternal  will  is  wrought, 
Whose  impulse  fills  anew  with  breath 
The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 

To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes  lent, 

To  mortal  musings  sometimes  sent, 

To  whisper — even  when  it  seems 
But  Memory’s  phantasy  of  dreams  — 
Through  the  mind’s  waste  of  woe  and  sin, 
Of  an  immortal  origin  ! 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 

1658. 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing 
rise  to-day,32 

From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath  plucked 
the  spoil  away,  — 


96  CA SSA NDRA  SOUTHWICK. 


Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the 
faithful  three. 

And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  His 
handmaid  free  ! 

Last  night  I saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my 
prison  bars, 

Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the 
pale  gleam  of  stars  ; 

In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through  the 
long  night  time, 

My  grated  casement  whitened  with  Autumn’s 
early  rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour 
crept  by; 

Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank  adown 
the  sky ; 

No  sound  amid  night’s  stillness,  save  that  which 
seemed  to  be 

The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the 
sea ; 

All  night  I sat  unsieeping,  for  I knew  that  on 
the  morrow 

The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me 
in  my  sorrow, 

Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bargained 
for  and  sold, 

Like  a lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a heifer 
from  the  fold ! 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 


97 


Oh,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there the 
shrinking  and  the  shame  ; 

And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers 
to  me  came  : 

“ Why  sit’st  thou  thus  forlornly ! ” the  wicked 
murmur  said, 

4 Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth 
thy  maiden  bed? 

“Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices,  soft 
and  sweet, 

Seen  in  thy  father’s  dwelling,  heard  in  the  pleas- 
ant street  ? 

Where  be  the  youths,  whose  glances  the  summer 
Sabbath  through 

Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father’s 
pew? 

“Why  sit’st  thou  here,  Cassandra?  — Bethink 
thee  with  what  mirth 

Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the  warm 
bright  hearth ; 

How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on  foreheads 
white  and  fair, 

On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden 
hair. 

Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not  for 
thee  kind  words  are  spoken, 


98  CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 


Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by 
laughing  boys  are  broken, 

No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap  are 
laid, 

For  thee  no  flowers  of  Autumn  the  youthful 
hunters  braid. 

“ Oh  ! weak,  deluded  maiden  ! — by  crazy  fancies 
led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to 
tread ; 

To  leave  a wholesome  worship,  and  teaching 
pure  and  sound ; 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired 
and  sackcloth  bound. 

“ Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock  at 
things  divine, 

Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread  and 
wine ; 

Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from 
the  pillory  lame, 

Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying  in 
their  shame. 

“ And  what  a fate  awaits  thee?  — a sadly  toiling 
slave, 

Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of  bond- 
age to  the  grave ! 


CASSANDRA  SOUTH  WICK, \ 


99 


Think  of  thy  woman’s  nature,  subdued  in  hope- 
less thrall, 

The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of 
all ! ” 

Oh! — ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble 
Nature’s  fears 

Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of  un- 
availing tears, 

I wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove  in 
silent  prayer, 

To  feel,  oh,  Helper  of  the  weak  ! — that  Thou 
indeed  wert  there ! 

I thought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Philippi’s 
cell, 

And  how  from  Peter’s  sleeping  limbs  the  prison- 
shackles  fell, 

Till  I seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angel’s 
robe  of  white, 

And  to  feel  a blessed  presence  invisible  to  sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  His  mercies  1 — for  the 
peace  and  love  I felt, 

Like  dew  of  Hermon’s  holy  hill,  upon  my  spirit 
melt ; 

When,  “Get  behind  me,  Satan!”  was  the  lan- 
guage of  my  heart, 

And  I felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his  doubts 
depart. 


IOO 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK . 


Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning;  again  the 
sunshine  fell, 

Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate  within 
my  lonely  cell ; 

The  hoar  frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  upward 
from  the  street 

Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread  of 
passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was 
open  cast, 

And  slowly  at  the  sheriff’s  side,  up  the  long 
street  I passed ; 

I heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but 
dared  not  see, 

How,  from  every  door  and  window,  the  people 
gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame  burned 
upon  my  cheek, 

Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trembling 
limbs  grew  weak  : 

“ Oh,  Lord  ! support  thy  handmaid ; and  from 
her  soul  cast  out 

The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a snare  — the 
weakness  and  the  doubt.” 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered  like  a cloud 
in  morning’s  breeze, 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 


IOI 


And  a low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed  whisper- 
ing words  like  these : 

“ Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy 
heaven  a brazen  wall, 

Trust  still  His  loving  kindness  whose  power  is 
over  all.” 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the  sun- 
lit waters  broke 

On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly 
wall  of  rock ; 

The  merchant-ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard  clear 
lines  on  high, 

Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their  net- 
work on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak-wrapped 
and  grave  and  cold, 

And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with  faces 
bronzed  and  old, 

And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel  clerk 
at  hand, 

Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler  of  the 
land. 

And  poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the  ruler’s 
ready  ear, 

The  priest  leaned  o’er  his  saddle,  with  laugh  and 
scoff  and  jeer ; 


102 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 


It  stirred  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the  seal  of 
silence  broke, 

As  if  through  woman’s  weakness  a warning 
spirit  spoke. 

I cried,  “ the  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  smiter  of 
the  meek, 

Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler  of 
the  weak  ! 

Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones  — go  turn 
the  prison  lock 

Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou  wolf 
amid  the  flock  ! 11 

Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and  with  a 
deeper  red 

O’er  Rawson’s  wine-empurpled  cheek  the  flush 
of  anger  spread ; 

“ Good  people,”  quoth  the  white-lipped  priest, 
“ heed  not  her  words  so  wild, 

Her  Master  speaks  within  her — the  Devil  owns 
his  child  ! ” 

But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit, 
the  while  the  sheriff  read 

That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor  have 
made, 

Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priest- 
hood bring 

No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offering. 


CASS  A NDRA  SO  UTHWICK.  1 03 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff  turn- 
ing said : 

“ Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this 
Quaker  maid  ? 

In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia’s 
shore, 

You  may  hold  her  at  a higher  price  than  Indian 
girl  or  Moor,” 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains  ; and  when 
again  he  cried, 

“ Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen  ! ” — no  voice, 
no  sign  replied ; 

But  I felt  a hard  hand  press  my  own,  and  kind 
words  met  my  ear : 

“ God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle 
girl  and  dear  ! ” 

A weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart,  — a pity- 
ing friend  was  nigh, 

I felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it 
in  his  eye; 

And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice,  so 
kind  to  me, 

Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring 
of  the  sea : 

“ Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver  — pack  with 
coins  of  Spanish  gold, 


104  CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 


From  keel-piece  up  to  deck -plank,  the  roomage 
of  her  hold, 

By  the  living  God  who  made  me ! — I would 
sooner  in  your  bay 

Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear  this 
child  away ! ” 

“ Well  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on 
their  cruel  laws ! ” 

Ran  through  the  croud  in  murmurs  loud  the 
people’s  just  applause. 

“ Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of  old, 

Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for 
silver  sold  ? ” 

I looked  on  haughty  Endicott;  with  weapon 
half  way  drawn, 

Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter 
hate  and  scorn ; 

Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle  rein,  and  turned  in 
silence  back, 

And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode  mur- 
muring in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitterness 
of  soul ; 

Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and 
crushed  his  parchment  roll. 

“ Good  friends,”  he  said,  “ since  both  have  fled, 
the  ruler  and  the  priest, 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK.  105 

Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I be  not 
well  released.” 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear,  swept 
round  the  silent  bay, 

As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he  bade 
me  go  my  way ; 

For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet 
of  the  glen, 

And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned  the 
hearts  of  men. 

Oh,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed  changed 
beneath  my  eye, 

A holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls  of 
the  sky, 

A lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill,  and  stream  and 
woodland  lay, 

And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters 
of  the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  ! — to  Him  all 
praises  be, 

Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  His 
handmaid  free ; 

All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the 
mighty  are  afraid, 

Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare,  which  for  the 
poor  is  laid ! 


1 06  CASSANDRA  SO  UTHWICK . 


Sing,  oh,  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  evening’s 
twilight  calm 

Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving  — pour  forth  the 
grateful  psalm ; 

Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did  the 
saints  of  old, 

When  of  the  Lord’s  good  angel  the  rescued 
Peter  told. 

And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty 
men  of  wrong, 

The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud  and  lay  His 
hand  upon  the  strong. 

Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  His  avenging  hour! 

Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to  raven 
and  devour : 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise,  — the  poor  in 
heart  be  glad, 

And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes  of 
praise  be  clad, 

For  He  who  cooled  the  furnace,  and  smoothed 
the  stormy  wave, 

And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  still  to 
save ! 


“ Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter 
hate  and  scorn” 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS.  107 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS.88 

1756. 

Around  Sebago’s  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a breeze  to  break 
.The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 

The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o’er, 

Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  sun  looks  o’er,  with  hazy  eye, 

The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

Dazzling  and  white  ! save  where  the  bleak, 

Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering  peak* 
Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco’s  banks  below, 

And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 

Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of  snow. 

The  earth  had  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 

Though  yet  on  her  deliverer’s  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 


Io8  FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS. 


Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow-brooks. 
And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass. 

The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 

Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 

In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness. 

What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 

Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this  ? 

The  turf’s  red  stain  is  yet  undried  — 
Scarce  have  the  death-Sxiot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago’s  w >oded  side  : 

And  silent  now  .he  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  wLire  a swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake’s  white  sand. 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 

Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 

With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  sternly  mute. 
They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 

And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root. 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOHO  HIS.  109 


They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 

The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide  — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 

In  tasselled  garb  of  skins  arrayed, 

And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarred  and  naked  breast.34 

’Tis  done : the  roots  are  backward  sent. 
The  beechen  tree  stands  up  unbent  — 
The  Indian’s  fitting  monument ! 

When  of  that  sleeper’s  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant  dwelling-place 
Which  knew  them  once,  retains  no  trace ; 

O ! long  may  sunset’s  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech’s  head  — • 

A green  memorial  of  the  dead ! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 

In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 
Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 

To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  which  break 
Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A solemn  under-tone  shall  make ! 


IIO  FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SO  NO  HIS. 


And  who  shall  deem  the  spot  unblest, 
Where  Nature’s  younger  children  rest, 
Lulled  on  their  sorrowing  mother’s  breast? 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilderness 
She  foldeth  in  her  long  caress  ? 

As  sweet  o’er  them  her  wild-flowers  blow, 
As  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 

What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  pressed  — 

No  funeral  rite  nor  prayer  hath  blessed? 

What  though  the  bigot’s  ban  be  there. 

And  thoughts  of  wailing  and  despair, 

And  cursing  in  the  place  of  prayer  ! 85 

Yet  Heaven  hath  angels  watching  round 
The  Indian’s  lowliest  forest-mound  — 

And  they  have  made  it  holy  ground. 

There  ceases  man’s  frail  judgment ; all 
His  powerless  bolts  of  cursing  fall 
Unheeded  on  that  grassy  pall. 

O,  peeled,  and  hunted,  and  reviled, 
Sleep*on,  dark  tenant  of  the  wild ! 

Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child ! 


ST.  JOHN \ 


III 


And  Nature’s  God,  to  whom  alone 
The  secret  of  the  heart  is  known  — 

The  hidden  language  traced  thereon ; 

Who  from  its  many  cumberings 
Of  form  and  creed,  and  outward  things, 
To  light  the  naked  spirit  brings ; 

Not  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan  — 
Not  with  our  pride  and  scorn  shall  ban 
The  spirit  of  our  brother  man  ! 


ST.  JOHN.*3 

1647. 

“ To  the  winds  give  our  banner! 

Bear  homeward  again  ! ” 

Cried  the  lord  of  Acadia, 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  ; 
From  the  prow  of  his  shallop 
He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 

From  its  bed  in  the  ocean, 
Streamed  up  the  St.  John. 

O’er  the  blue  western  waters 
That  shallop  had  passed, 


112 


ST.  JOHN. 


Where  the  mists  of  Penobscot 
Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 

St.  Saviour37  had  look’d 
On  the  heretic  sail, 

As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 
Rose  on  the  gale. 

The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 
Remembered  her  well, 

And  had  cursed  her  while  passing, 
With  taper  and  bell, 

But  the  men  of  Monhegan,38 
Of  Papists  abhorr’d, 

Had  welcomed  and  feasted 
The  heretic  Lord. 

They  had  loaded  his  shallop 
With  dun-fish  and  ball, 

With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 

Pemequid,  from  her  bastions 
And  turrets  of  stone, 

Had  welcomed  his  coming 
With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 
Had  followed  his  way, 

As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 


ST.  JOHN. 


”3 


O ! well  sped  La  Tour ! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 

His  lady  kept  watch 
For  his  coming  again. 

O’er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 
The  morning  sun  shone, 

On  the  plane-trees  which  shaded 
The  shores  of  St.  John. 

“ Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 
Speaks  not  my  love  ! 

Why  waves  there  no  banner 
My  fortress  above  ? ” 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 
St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 

On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 

And  silent  redoubt ; 

From  the  low,  shattered  walls 
Which  the  flame  had  o’errun. 
There  floated  no  banner, 

There  thunder’d  no  gun  ! 

But,  beneath  the  low  arch 
Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 

With  the  bound  of  a lion, 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land. 


H4 


ST.  JOHN. 


On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 
He  fastened  his  hand. 

“ Speak,  son  of  the  Woman 
Of  scarlet  and  sin  ! 

What  wolf  has  been  prowling 
My  castle  within?” 

From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 
The  Jesuit  broke, 

Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 
He  smiled  as  he  spoke  : 

“ No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne 
Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 

But  thy  red-handed  rival, 
With  fire,  steel,  and  ball ! 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 
I hitherward  came, 

While  th  e walls  of  thy  castle 
Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

Pentagoet’s  dark  vessels 
Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 
Aloud  for  their  prey.” 

But  what  of  my  lady  ? ” 
Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  : 
■“  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 
Thy  lady  was  seen  : 


ST.  JOHN. 


IJS 


“ Half-veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud, 
Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 
In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon  ! 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe ! 

When  the  son  of  the  church 
And  the  cross  is  his  foe  ! 

“ In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Pentagoet  swept  over 
The  breach  of  the  wall ! 

Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment  — and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men ! 

“ Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 

Saw  the  cross-blazon’d  banner 
Float  over  St.  John.” 

“ Let  the  dastard  look  to  it  !n 

Cried  fiery  Estienne, 

“ Were  D’Aulney  King  Louisj 
I’d  free  her  again  ! ” 

“ Alas,  for  thy  lady  ! 

No  service  from  thee 


n6 


ST.  JOHN . 


Is  needed  by  her 
Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free  s 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 

But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door  ! ” 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 
La  Tour  stagger’d  back  ; 

His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 
His  forehead  grew  black. 

He  sprang  on  the  deck 
Of  his  shallop  again  : 

4‘We  cruise  now  for  vengeance ! 
Give  way  !”  cried  Estienne. 

**  Massachusetts  shall  hear 
Of  the  Huguenot’s  wrong, 

And  from  island  and  creek-side 
Her  fishers  shall  throng  ! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done. 
When  his  palisades  echo 
The  Puritan’s  gun ! ” 

O ! the  loveliest  of  heavens 
Hung  tenderly  o’er  him, 

There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine^ 
And  green  isles  before  him  : 


PENTUCKE  T. 


X 


But  a pale  hand  was  beckoning 
The  Huguenot  on ; 

And  in  blackness  and  ashes 
Behind  was  St.  John  ! 


PENTUCKET.89 

1780. 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone  ! 

Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  stiM 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 

Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a cloudless  West, 

Glorious  as  if  a glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  Heavea, 

Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset’s  holy  hour,  ajar  ! 

Beside  the  river’s  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-wall’d  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a rood  of  open  land 
Stretch’d  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blacken’d  stumps  between. 


n8 


PENTUCKET. 


Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 

The  wild,  untravell’d  forest  spread, 

Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 

Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm,  without  a fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 

The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough  — 

The  milk-maid  caroll’d  by  her  cow  — 
From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 
At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 

And  silence  on  that  village  lay  — 

So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 

Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallow’d  all, 
Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate  ! 

Hours  pass’d  away.  By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimack  along  his  bed. 

Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam. 

As  the  hush’d  grouping  of  a dream. 

Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a sound  — 

No  bark  of  fox  — nor  rabbit’s  bound  — 
Nor  stir  of  wings  — nor  waters  flowing  — 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 


PENTUCKET \ 


119 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 

Which  downward  from  the  hill-side  beat? 

What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 
Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood?  — 

Charr’d  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 

Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb  ? 

No  — through  the  trees  fierce  eye-balls  glow’d, 
Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  show’d, 

Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 

With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress  ! 

A yell,  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear, 

Swell’d  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear  — 

Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock  — 

Then  rang  the  rifle-shot  — and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men  — 

Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman’s  brain, 

Arid  childhood’s  cry  arose  in  vain  — 

Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 

Red,  fast  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame ; 

And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  weapons  bared. 

The  morning  sun  looked  brightly  through 
The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 

No  sound  of  combat  fill’d  the  air,  — 

No  shout  was  heard,  — nor  gun-shot  there: 

Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 


120 


THE  FA  MI  LI  ST  'S  HYMN. 


From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke ; 

And  on  the  green  sward  many  a stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain. 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head ! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearth-stone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke. 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville’s  corse  lay  grim  and  bare  — 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  fear’d, 
Bore  not  a trace  of  hair  or  beard  — 

And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  dark  y up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


THE  FAMILIST’S  HYMN.*0 

Father  ! to  Thy  suffering  poor 

Strength  and  grace  and  faith  impart, 
And  with  Thy  own  love  restore 
Comfort  to  the  broken  heart ! 

Oh,  the  failing  ones  confirm 

With  a holier  strength  of  zeal ! — 


THE  FA  MI  LIS  T 'S  HYMN. 


121 


Give  Thou  not  the  feeble  worm 
Helpless  to  the  spoiler’s  heel ! 

Father  ! for  Thy  holy  sake 

We  are  spoiled  and  hunted  thus ; 
Joyful,  for  Thy  truth  we  take 
Bonds  and  burthens  unto  us  : 

Poor,  and  weak,  and  robbed  of  all, 
Weary  with  our  daily  task, 

That  Thy  truth  may  never  fall 

Through  our  weakness,  Lord,  we  ask. 

Round  our  fired  and  wasted  homes 
Flits  the  forest-bird  unscared, 

And  at  noon  the  wild  beast  comes 
Where  our  frugal  meal  was  shared ; 
For  the  song  of  praises  there 

Shrieks  the  crow  the  livelong  day, 

For  the  sound  of  evening  prayer 
Howls  the  evil  beast  of  prey ! 

Sweet  the  songs  we  loved  to  sing 
Underneath  Thy  holy  sky  — 

Words  and  tones  that  used  to  bring 
Tears  of  joy  in  every  eye,  — 

Dear  the  wrestling  hours  of  prayer, 
When  we  gathered  knee  to  knee, 
Blameless  youth  and  hoary  hair, 

Bow’d,  O God,  alone  to  Thee. 


122 


THE  FA  MI  LIST'S  HYMN, 


As  Thine  early  children,  Lord, 

Shared  their  wealth  and  daily  bread, 

Even  so,  with  one  accord. 

We,  in  love,  each  other  fed. 

Not  with  us  the  miser’s  hoard, 

Not  with  us  his  grasping  hand ; 

Equal  round  a common  board, 

Drew  our  meek  and  brother  band ! 

Safe  our  quiet  Eden  lay 

When  the  war-whoop  stirred  the  land, 

And  the  Indian  turn’d  away 

From  our  home  his  bloody  hand. 

Well  that  forest-ranger  saw, 

That  the  burthen  and  the  curse 

Of  the  white  man’s  cruel  law 
Rested  also  upon  us. 

Torn  apart,  and  driven  forth 
To  our  toiling  hard  and  long, 

Father  ! from  the  dust  of  earth 
Lift  we  still  our  grateful  song ! 

Grateful  — that  in  bonds  we  share 
In  Thy  love  which  maketh  free ; 

Joyful  — that  the  wrongs  we  bear, 

Draw  us  nearer,  Lord,  to  thee! 

Grateful ! — that  where’er  we  toil  — 

By  Wachuset’s  wooded  side, 


THE  FA  MI  LIST'S  HYMN. 


123 


On  Nantucket’s  sea-worn  isle, 

Or  by  wild  Neponset’s  tide  — 

Still,  in  spirit,  we  are  near, 

And  our  evening  hymns  which  rise 
Separate  and  discordant  here, 

Meet  and  mingle  in  the  skies  ! 

Let  the  scoffer  scorn  and  mock, 

Let  the  proud  and  evil  priest 
Rob  the  needy  of  his  flock. 

For  his  wine-cup  and  his  feast, — 
Redden  not  Thy  bolts  in  store 

Through  the  blackness  of  Thy  skies? 
For  the  sighing  of  the  poor 

Wilt  Thou  not,  at  length,  arise? 

Worn  and  wasted,  oh,  how  long 
Shall  Thy  trodden  poor  complain? 

In  Thy  name  they  bear  the  wrong, 

In  Thy  cause  the  bonds  of  pain ! 
Melt  oppression’s  heart  of  steel, 

Let  the  haughty  priesthood  see, 

And  their  blinded  followers  feel, 

That  in  us  they  mock  at  Thee  \ 

In  Thy  time,  O Lord  of  hosts, 

Stretch  abroad  that  hand  to  save 
Which  of  old,  on  Egypt’s  coasts, 
Smote  apart  the  Red  Sea’s  wave ! 


124  THE  FOUNTAIN \ 

Lead  us  from  this  evil  land, 

From  the  spoiler  set  us  free, 

And  once  more  our  gather’d  band, 
Heart  to  heart,  shall  worship  Thee  \ 


THE  FOUNTAIN.41 

Traveller  ! on  thy  journey  toiling 
By  the  swift  Powow, 

With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 
On  thy  heated  brow, 

Listen,  while  all  else  is  still 
To  the  brooklet  from  the  hill. 

Wild  and  sweet  the  flowers  are  blowing 
By  that  streamlet’s  side, 

And  a greener  verdure  showing 
Where  its  waters  glide  — 

Down  the  hill-slope  murmuring  on, 

Over  root  and  mossy  stone. 

Where  yon  oak  his  broad  arms  flingeth 
O’er  the  sloping  hill, 

Beautiful  and  freshly  springeth 
That  soft-flowing  rill, 

Through  its  dark  roots  wreath’d  and  bare, 
Gushing  up  to  sun  and  air. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


I2S 


Brighter  waters  sparkled  never 
In  that  magic  well, 

Of  whose  gift  of  life  for  ever 
Ancient  legends  tell,  — 

In  the  lonely  desert  wasted, 

And  by  mortal  lip  untasted. 

Waters  which  the  proud  Castilian42 
Sought  with  longing  eyes, 
Underneath  the  bright  pavilion 
Of  the  Indian  skies  ; 

Where  his  forest  pathway  lay 
Through  the  blooms  of  Florida. 

Years  ago  a lonely  stranger, 

With  the  dusky  brow 
Of  the  outcast  forest-ranger, 
Crossed  the  swift  Powow ; 

And  betook  him  to  the  rill, 

And  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 

O’er  his  face  of  moody  sadness 
For  an  instant  shone 
Something  like  a gleam  of  gladness, 
As  he  stooped  him  down 
To  the  fountain’s  grassy  side 
And  his  eager  thirst  supplied. 

With  the  oak  its  shadow  throwing 
O’er  his  mossy  seat, 


126 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


And  the  cool,  sweet  waters  flowing 
Softly  at  his  feet, 

Closely  by  the  fountain’s  rim 
That  lone  Indian  seated  him. 

Autumn’s  earliest  frost  had  given 
To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  Heaven 
Lendeth  to  its  bow ; 

And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 

Far  behind  was  Ocean  striving 
With  his  chains  of  sand  ; 
Southward,  sunny  glimpses  giving, 
’Twixt  the  swells  of  land, 

Of  its  calm  and  silvery  track, 

Rolled  the  tranquil  Merrimack. 

Over  village,  wood  and  meadow, 
Gazed  that  stranger  man 
Sadly,  till  the  twilight  shadow 
Over  all  things  ran, 

Save  where  spire  and  westward  pane 
Flashed  the  sunset  back  again. 

Gazing  thus  upon  the  dwelling 
Of  his  warrior  sires, 

Where  no  lingering  trace  was  telling 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


127 


Of  their  wigwam  fires, 

Who  the  gloomy  thoughts  might  know 
Of  that  wandering  child  of  woe  ? 

Naked  lay,  in  sunshine  glowing, 

Hills  that  once  had  stood 
Down  their  sides  the  shadows  throwing 
Of  a mighty  wood, 

Where  the  deer  his  covert  kept, 

And  the  eagle’s  pinion  swept ! 

Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 
Down  the  swift  Powow, 

Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 
Those  clear  waters  now  ; 

And  where  once  the  beaver  swam, 

Jarred  the  wheel  and  frowned  the  dam. 

For  the  wood-bird’s  merry  singing, 

And  the  hunter’s  cheer, 

Iron  clang  and  hammer’s  ringing 
Smote  upon  his  ear ; 

And  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  the  blackened  forges  broke. 

Could  it  be,  his  fathers  ever, 

Loved  to  linger  here? 

These  bare  hills  — this  conquer’d  river  — 
Could  they  hold  them  dear, 


128 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


With  their  native  loveliness 
Tamed  and  tortured  into  this? 

Sadly,  as  the  shades  of  even 
Gathered  o’er  the  hill, 

While  the  western  half  of  Heaven 
Blushed  with  sunset  still. 

From  the  fountain’s  mossy  seat 
Turned  the  Indian’s  weary  feet. 

Year  on  year  hath  flown  for  ever, 
But  he  came  no  more 
To  the  hill-side  or  the  river 
Where  he  came  before. 

But  the  villager  can  tell 
Of  that  strange  man’s  visit  well. 

And  the  merry  children,  laden 
With  their  fruits  or  flowers  — 
Loving  boy  and  laughing  maiden, 
In  their  school-day  hours, 

Love  the  simple  tale  to  tell 
Of  the  Indian  and  his  well. 


THE  EXILES . 


129 


THE  EXILES.43 

1660, 

The  goodman  sat  beside  his  door 
One  sultry  afternoon, 

With  his  young  wife  singing  at  his  side 
An  old  and  goodly  tune. 

A glimmer  of  heat  was  in  the  air,  — 

The  dark  green  woods  were  still ; 

And  the  skirts  of  a heavy  thunder-cloud 
Hung  over  the  western  hill. 

Black,  thick,  and  vast,  arose  that  cloud 
Above  the  wilderness, 

As  some  dark  world  from  upper  air 
Were  stooping  over  this. 

At  times,  the  solemn  thunder  pealed, 
And  all  was  still  again, 

Save  a low  murmur  in  the  air 
Of  coming  wind  and  rain. 

Just  as  the  first  big  rain-drop  fell, 

A weary  stranger  came, 

And  stood  before  the  farmer’s  door, 
With  travel  soiled  and  lame. 


i3° 


THE  EXILES. 


Sad  seemed  he,  yet  sustaining  hope 
Was  in  his  quiet  glance, 

And  peace,  like  autumn’s  moonlight,  clothed 
His  tranquil  countenance. 

A look,  like  that  his  Master  wore 
In  Pilate’s  council-hall : 

It  told  of  wrongs  — but  of  a love 
Meekly  forgiving  all. 

“ Friend  ! wilt  thou  give  me  shelter  here?” 
The  stranger  meekly  said  ; 

And,  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff. 

The  goodman’s  features  read. 

“ My  life  is  hunted  — evil  men 
Are  following  in  my  track ; 

The  traces  of  the  torturer’s  whip 
Are  on  my  aged  back. 

“ And  much,  I fear,  ’twill  peril  thee 
Within  thy  doors  to  take 

A hunted  seeker  of  the  Truth, 

Oppressed  for  conscience’  sake.” 

Oh,  kindly  spoke  the  goodman’s  wife  — 

“ Come  in,  old  man  ! ” quoth  she,  — 

“We  will  not  leave  thee  to  the  storm 
Whoever  thou  may’st  be.” 


THE  EXILES. 


I31 

Then  came  the  aged  wanderer  in, 

And  silent  sat  him  down  ; 

While  all  within  grew  dark  as  night 
Beneath  the  storm-cloud’s  frown. 

But  while  the  sudden  lightning’s  blaze 
-Filled  every  cottage  nook, 

And  with  the  jarring  thunder-roll 
The  loosened  casements  shook, 

A heavy  tramp  of  horses’  feet 
Came  sounding  up  the  lane, 

And  half  a score  of  horse,  or  more, 

Came  plunging  through  the  rain. 

“ Now,  Goodman  Macey,  ope  thy  door,  — 

We  would  not  be  house-breakers  ; 

A rueful  deed  thou’st  done  this  day, 

In  harboring  banished  Quakers.” 

Out  looked  the  cautious  goodman  then, 

With  much  of  fear  and  awe, 

For  there,  with  broad  wig  drenched  with  rain, 
The  parish  priest  he  saw. 

“ Open  thy  door,  thou  wicked  man, 

And  let  thy  pastor  in, 

And  give  God  thanks,  if  forty  stripes 
Repay  thy  deadly  sin.” 


132 


THE  EXILES. 


“ What  seek  ye?  ” quoth  the  goodman,  — 
“ The  stranger  is  my  guest ; 

He  is  worn  with  toil  and  grievous  wrong,  — 
Pray  let  the  old  man  rest.” 

“ Now,  out  upon  thee,  canting  knave ! ” 
And  strong  hands  shook  the  door, 

“ Believe  me,  Macey,”  quoth  the  priest, — » 
“ Thou’lt  rue  thy  conduct  sore.” 

Then  kindled  Macey’s  eye  of  fire  : 

“No  priest  who  walks  the  earth,. 

Shall  pluck  away  the  stranger-guest 
Made  welcome  to  my  hearth.” 

Down  from  his  cottage  wall  he  caught 
The  matchlock,  hotly  tried 

At  Preston-pans  and  Marston-moor, 

By  fiery  Ireton’s  side  ; 

Where  Puritan,  and  Cavalier, 

With  shout  and  psalm  contended  ; 

And  Rupert’s  oath,  and  Cromwell’s  prayer* 
With  battle-thunder  blended. 

Up  rose  the  ancient  stranger  then : 

“ My  spirit  is  not  free 

To  bring  the  wrath  and  violence 
Of  evil  men  on  thee  : 


THE  EXILES. 


“ And  for  thyself,  I pray  forbear,  — 
Bethink  thee  of  thy  Lord, 

Who  healed  again  the  smitten  ear, 

And  sheathed  his  follower’s  sword. 

“ I go,  as  to  the  slaughter  led : 

Friends  of  the  poor,  farewell !” 

Beneath  his  hand  the  oaken  door 
Back  on  its  hinges  fell. 

“ Come  forth,  old  gray-beard,  yea  and  nay,’ 
The  reckless  scoffers  cried, 

As  to  a horseman’s  saddle-bow 
The  old  man’s  arms  were  tied. 

And  of  his  bondage  hard  and  long 
In  Boston’s  crowded  jail, 

Where  suffering  woman’s  prayer  was  heard. 
With  sickening  childhood’s  wail, 

It  suits  not  with  our  tale  to  tell : 

Those  scenes  have  passed  away  — 

Let  the  dim  shadows  of  the  past 
Brood  o’er  that  evil  day. 

“ Ho,  sheriff!  ” quoth  the  ardent  priest  — 

“ Take  Goodman  Macey  too  ; 

The  sin  of  this  day’s  heresy, 

His  back  or  purse  shall  rue.” 


234 


THE  EXILES . 


And  priest  and  sheriff,  both  together 
Upon  his  threshold  stood, 

When  Macey,  through  another  door, 

Sprang  out  into  the  wood. 

“ Now  goodwife,  haste  thee  ! 11  Macey  cried, 
She  caught  his  manly  arm : — 

Behind,  the  parson  urged  pursuit, 

With  outcry  and  alarm. 

Ho ! speed  the  Maceys,  neck  or  nought,  — * 
The  river  course  was  near  : — 

The  plashing  on  its  pebbled  shore 
Was  music  to  their  ear. 

A gray  rock,  tasselled  o’er  with  birch 
Above  the  waters  hung, 

And  at  its  base,  with  every  wave, 

A small  light  wherry  swung. 

A leap  — they  gain  the  boat  — and  there 
The  goodman  wields  his  oar : 

“ 111  luck  betide  them  all  ” — he  cried,  — 

“ The  laggards  upon  the  shore.” 

Down  through  the  crashing  under- wood, 
The  burly  sheriff  came  : — 

“ Stand,  Goodman  Macey  — yield  thyself ; 
Yield  in  the  King’s  own  name.” 


THE  EXILES . 


*35 


“Now  out  upon  thy  hangman’s  face ! ” 

Bold  Macey  answered  then,  — 

“ Whip  women , on  the  village  green, 

But  meddle  not  with  men." 

The  priest  came  panting  to  the  shore,  — 

His  grave  cocked  hat  was  gone : 

Behind  him,  like  some  owl’s  nest,  hung 
His  wig  upon  a thorn. 

“ Come  back  — come  back ! ” the  parson  cried, 
“The  church’s  curse  beware.” 

“ Curse  an’  thou  wilt,”  said  Macey,  “ but 
Thy  blessing  prithee  spare.” 

“ Vile  scoffer  ! ” cried  the  baffled  priest,  — 

“ Thou’lt  yet  the  gallows  see.” 

“ Who’s  born  to  be  hanged,  will  not  be 
drowned,” 

Quoth  Macey  merrily ; 

“ And  so,  sir  sheriff  and  priest,  good-by!” 

He  bent  him  to  his  oar, 

And  the  small  boat  glided  quietly 
From  the  twain  upon  the  shore. 

Now  in  the  west,  the  heavy  clouds 
Scattered  and  fell  asunder, 

While  feebler  came  the  rush  of  rain, 

And  fainter  growled  the  thunder. 


*36 


THE  EXILES. 


And  through  the  broken  clouds,  the  sun 
Looked  out  serene  and  warm, 

Painting  its  holy  symbol-light 
Upon  the  passing  storm. 

Oh,  beautiful ! that  rainbow  span, 

O’er  dim  Crane-neck  was  bended ; — 
One  bright  foot  touched  the  eastern  hills, 
And  one  with  ocean  blended. 

By  green  Pentucket’s  southern  slope 
The  small  boat  glided  fast,  — 

The  watchers  of  “ the  Block-house  ” saw 
The  strangers  as  they  passed. 

That  night  a stalwart  garrison 
Sat  shaking  in  their  shoes, 

To  hear  the  dip  of  Indian  oars,  — 

The  glide  of  birch  canoes. 

The  fisher-wives  of  Salisbury, 

(The  men  were  all  away) , 

Looked  out  to  see  the  stranger  oar 
Upon  their  waters  play. 

Deer  Island’s  rocks  and  fir-trees  threw 
Their  sunset-shadows  o’er  them, 

And  Newbury’s  spire  and  weathercock 
Peered  o’er  the  pines  before  them. 


THE  EXILES. 


*37 


Around  the  Black  Rocks,  on  their  left, 

The  marsh  lay  broad  and  green ; 

And  on  their  right,  with  dwarf  shrubs  crowned, 
Plum  Island’s  hills  were  seen. 

With  skilful  hand  and  wary  eye 
The  harbor-bar  was  crossed ; — 

A plaything  of  the  restless  wave, 

The  boat  on  ocean  tossed. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  heaven 
On  land  and  water  lay,  — 

On  the  steep  hills  of  Agawam, 

On  cape,  and  bluff,  and  bay. 

They  passed  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, 

And  Gloucester’s  harbor-bar ; 

The  watch-fire  of  the  garrison 
Shone  like  a setting  star. 

How  brightly  broke  the  morning 
On  Massachusetts  Bay ! 

Blue  wave,  and  bright  green  island, 

Rejoicing  in  the  day. 

On  passed  the  bark  in  safety 

Round  isle  and  headland  steep  — 

No  tempest  broke  above  them, 

No  fog  cloud  veiled  the  deep. 


THE  EXILES. 


Far  round  the  bleak  and  stormy  Cape 
The  vent’rous  Macey  passed, 

And  on  Nantucket’s  naked  isle, 

Drew  up  his  boat  at  last. 

And  how,  in  log-built  cabin, 

They  braved  the  rough  sea-weather ; 

And  there,  in  peace  and  quietness, 
Went  down  life’s  vale  together  : 

How  others  drew  around  them, 

And  how  their  fishing  sped, 

Until  to  every  wind  of  heaven 
Nantucket’s  sails  were  spread : 

How  pale  want  alternated 
With  plenty’s  golden  smile ; 

Behold,  is  it  not  written 
In  the  annals  of  the  isle  ? 

And  yet  that  isle  remaineth 
A refuge  of  the  free, 

As  when  true-hearted  Macey 
Beheld  it  from  the  sea. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  winnow 

; Her  shrubless  hills  of  sand  — 

Free  as  the  waves  that  batter 
Along  her  yielding  land. 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD . 139 


Than  hers,  at  duty’s  summons, 
No  loftier  spirit  stirs,  — 

Nor  falls  o’er  human  suffering 
A readier  tear  than  hers. 

God  bless  the  sea-beat  island  ! — 
And  grant  for  evermore, 

That  charity  and  freedom  dwell, 
As  now  upon  her  shore  ! 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD.44 

Dark  the  halls,  and  cold  the  feast  — 

Gone  the  bridemaids,  gone  the  priest ! 

All  is  over  — all  is  done, 

Twain  of  yesterday  are  one  ! 

Blooming  girl  and  manhood  gray, 

Autumn  in  the  arms  of  May ! 

Hushed  within  and  hushed  without, 

Dancing  feet  and  wrestlers’  shout ; 

Dies  the  bonfire  on  the  hill ; 

All  is  dark  and  all  is  still, 

Save  the  starlight,  save  the  breeze 
Moaning  through  the  grave-yard  trees ; 

And  the  great  sea-waves  below, 

Like  the  night’s  pulse,  beating  slow. 


140  THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD. 


From  the  brief  dream  of  a bride 
She  hath  wakened,  at  his  side, 

With  half-uttered  shriek  and  start  — 
Feels  she  not  his  beating  heart  ? 

And  the  pressure  of  his  arm, 

And  his  breathing  near  and  warm? 

Lightly  from  the  bridal  bed 
Springs  that  fair  dishevelled  head, 

And  a feeling,  new,  intense, 

Half  of  shame,  half  innocence, 

Maiden  fear  and  wonder  speaks 
Through  her  lips  and  changing  cheeks. 

From  the  oaken  mantel  glowing 
Faintest  light  the  lamp  is  throwing 
On  the  mirror’s  antique  mould, 
High-backed  chair,  and  wainscot  old, 
And,  through  faded  curtains  stealing, 
His  dark  sleeping  face  revealing. 

Listless  lies  the  strong  man  there, 
Silver-streaked  his  careless  hair ; 

Lips  of  love  have  left  no  trace 
On  that  hard  and  haughty  face ; 

And  that  forehead’s  knitted  thought 
Love’s  soft  hand  hath  not  unwrought. 

“ Yet,”  she  sighs,  “ he  loves  me  well, 
More  than  these  calm  lips  will  tell. 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD.  141 


Stooping  to  my  lowly  state, 

He  hath  made  me  rich  and  great, 

And  I bless  him,  though  he  be 
Hard  and  stern  to  all  save  me  ! ” 

While  she  speaketh,  falls  the  light 
O’er  her  fingers  small  and  white ; 

Gold  and  gem  and  costly  ring 
Back  the  timid  lustre  fling  — 

Love’s  selectest  gifts,  and  rare, 

His  proud  hand  had  fastened  there. 

Gratefully  she  marks  the  glow 
From  those  tapering  lines  of  snow;  > 
Fondly  o’er  the  sleeper  bending, 

His  black  hair  with  golden  blending, 

In  her  soft  and  light  caress, 

Cheek  and  lip  together  press. 

Ha  ! — that  start  of  horror ! — Why 
That  wild  stare  and  wilder  cry, 

Full  of  terror,  full  of  pain? 

Is  there  madness  in  her  brain  ? 

Hark  ! that  gasping,  hoarse  and  low : 

“ Spare  me  — - spare  me  — let  me  go ! w 

God  have  mercy  ! — Icy  cold 
Spectral  hands  her  own  enfold, 
Drawing  silently  from  them 


142  THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD . 


Love’s  fair  gifts  of  gold  and  gem. 

“ Waken  ! save  me  ! ” still  as  death 
At  her  side  he  slumbereth. 

Ring  and  bracelet  all  are  gone, 

And  that  ice-cold  hand  withdrawn; 

But  she  hears  a murmur  low, 

Full  of  sweetness,  full  of  woe, 

Half  a sigh  and  half  a moan  : 

“ Fear  not ! give  the  dead  her  own  ! ” 

Ah  ! — the  dead  wife’s  voice  she  knows  ! 
That  cold  hand  whose  pressure  froze, 
Once  in  warmest  life  had  borne 
Gem  and  band  her  own  hath  worn. 

“ Wake  thee!  wake  thee  !”  Lo,  his  eyes 
Open  with  a dull  surprise. 

In  his  arms  the  strong  man  folds  her, 
Closer  to  his  breast  he  holds  her ; 
Trembling  limbs  his  own  are  meeting, 
And  he  feels  her  heart’s  quick  beating : 

“ Nay,  my  dearest,  why  this  fear  ?” 

“ Hush  ! ” she  saith,  “ the  dead  is  here  1” 

“ Nay,  a dream  — an  idle  dream.” 

But  before  the  lamp’s  pale  gleam 
Tremblingly  her  hand  she  raises,  — 

There  no  more  the  diamond  blazes, 

Clasp  of  pearl,  or  ring  of  gold,  — 

“ Ah  !”  she  sighs,  “ her  hand  was  cold !” 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD . 143 

Broken  words  of  cheer  he  saith, 

But  his  dark  lip  quivereth, 

And  as  o’er  the  past  he  thinketh, 

From  his  young  wife’s  arms  he  shrinketh ; 
Can  those  soft  arms  round  him  lie, 
Underneath  his  dead  wife’s  eye? 

She  her  fair  young  head  can  rest 
Soothed  and  child-like  on  his  breast, 

And  in  trustful  innocence 

Draw  new  strength  and  courage  thence ; 

He,  the  proud  man,  feels  within 
But  the  cowardice  of  sin ! 

She  can  murmur  in  her  thought 
Simple  prayers  her  mother  taught, 

And  His  blessed  angels  call, 

Whose  great  love  is  over  all ; 

He,  alone,  in  prayerless  pride, 

Meets  the  dark  Past  at  her  side  ! 

One,  who  living  shrank  with  dread, 

From  his  look,  or  word,  or  tread, 

Unto  whom  her  early  grave 
Was  as  freedom  to  the  slave, 

Moves  him  at  this  midnight  hour, 

With  the  dead’s  unconscious  power ! 

Ah,  the  dead,  the  unforgot! 

From  their  solemn  homes  of  thought, 


144  the  new  wife  and  the  old . 


Where  the  cypress  shadows  blend 
Darkly  over  foe  and  friend, 

Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke, 

Back  upon  the  living  look. 

And  the  tenderest  ones  and  weakest, 

Who  their  wrongs  have  borne  the  meekest, 
Lifting  from  those  dark,  still  places, 

Sweet  and  sad-remembered  faces, 

O’er  the  guilty  hearts  behind 
An  unwitting  triumph  find. 


TOUSSAINT  VOUVERTURE.  145 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


TOUSSAINT  L’OUVERTURE.45 

’Twas  night.  The  tranquil  moonlight  smile 
With  which  Heaven  dreams  of  Earth,  shed 
down 

Its  beauty  on  the  Indian  isle  — 

On  broad  green  field  and  white-walled  town ; 
And  inland  waste  of  rock  and  wood, 

In  searching  sunshine,  wild  and  rude, 

Rose,  mellowed  through  the  silver  gleam, 

Soft  as  the  landscape  of  a dream, 

All  motionless  and  dewy  wet, 

Tree,  vine,  and  flower  in  shadow  met: 

The  myrtle  with  its  snowy  bloom, 

Crossing  the  nightshade’s  solemn  gloom  — 

The  white  cecropia’s  silver  rind 
Relieved  by  deeper  green  behind,  — 

The  orange  with  its  fruit  of  gold,  — 

The  lithe  paullinia’s  verdant  fold,  — 


146  TOUSSAINT  VOUVERTURE . 


The  passion-flower,  with  symbol  holy, 
Twining  its  tendrils  long  and  lowly,  — 
The  rhexias  dark,  and  cassia  tall, 

And  proudly  rising  over  all, 

The  kingly  palm’s  imperial  stem, 

Crowned  with  its  leafy  diadem,  — 
Star-like,  beneath  whose  sombre  shade, 
The  fiery -winged  cucullo  played  ! 

Yes  — lovely  was  thine  aspect,  then, 

Fair  island  of  the  Western  Sea  ! 

Lavish  of  beauty,  even  when 
Thy  brutes  were  happier  than  thy  men, 
For  they,  at  least,  were  free ! 
Regardless  of  thy  glorious  clime, 
Unmindful  of  thy  soil  of  flowers, 

The  toiling  negro  sighed,  that  Time 
No  faster  sped  his  hours. 

For,  by  the  dewy  moonlight  still, 

He  fed  the  weary-turning  mill, 

Or  bent  him  in  the  chill  morass, 

To  pluck  the  long  and  tangled  grass, 

And  hear  above  his  scar-worn  back 
The  heavy  slave-whip’s  frequent  crack ; 
While  in  his  heart  one  evil  thought 
In  solitary  madness  wrought,  — 

One  baleful  fire  surviving  still 

The  quenching  of  the  immortal  mind  — 
One  sterner  passion  of  his  kind, 


TOUSSAINT  VOUVERTURE . 


147 


Which  even  fetters  could  not  kill,  — 

The  savage  hope,  to  deal,  ere  long, 

A vengeance  bitterer  than  his  wrong  ! 

Hark  to  that  cry  ! — long,  loud,  and  shrill, 
From  field  and  forest,  rock  and  hill, 
Thrilling  and  horrible  it  rang, 

Around,  beneath,  above;  — 

The  wild  beast  from  his  cavern  sprang  — 
The  wild  bird  from  her  grove  ! 

Nor  fear,  nor  joy,  nor  agony 
Were  mingled  in  that  midnight  cry ; 

But,  like  the  lion’s  growl  of  wrath, 

When  falls  that  hunter  in  his  path, 

Whose  barb&d  arrow,  deeply  set, 

Is  rankling  in  his  bosom  yet, 

It  told  of  hate,  full,  deep,  and  strong,  — ■ 

Of  vengeance  kindling  out  of  wrong  ; 

It  was  as  if  the  crimes  of  years  — 

The  unrequited  toil  — the  tears  — 

The  shame  and  hate,  which  liken  well 
Earth’s  garden  to  the  nether  hell, 

Had  found  in  Nature’s  self  a tongue, 

On  which  the  gathered  horror  hung ; 

As  if  from  cliff,  and  stream,  and  glen, 
Burst,  on  the  startled  ears  of  men, 

That  voice  which  rises  unto  God, 

Solemn  and  stern  — the  cry  of  blood ! 

It  ceased  — and  all  was  still  once  more, 


148  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE . 


Save  ocean  chafing  on  his  shore, 

The  sighing  of  the  wind  between 
The  broad  banana’s  leaves  of  green, 

Or  bough  by  restless  plumage  shook, 

Or  murmuring  voice  of  mountain  brook. 

Brief  was  the  silence.  Once  again 
Pealed  to  the  skies  that  frantic  yell  — 
Glowed  on  the  heavens  a fiery  stain, 

And  flashes  rose  and  fell ; 

And,  painted  on  the  blood-red  sky, 

Dark,  naked  arms  were  tossed  on  high ; 
And,  round  the  white  man’s  lordly  hall, 
Trode,  fierce  and  free,  the  brute  he  made 
And  those  who  crept  along  the  wall, 

And  answered  to  his  lightest  call 
With  more  than  spaniel  dread  — 

The  creatures  of  his  lawless  beck  — 

Were  trampling  on  his  very  neck ! 

And,  on  the  night-air,  wild  and  clear, 

Rose  woman’s  shriek  of  more  than  fear-; 
For  bloodied  arms  were  round  her  thrown, 
And  dark  cheeks  pressed  against  her  own  ! 

Then,  injured  Afric  ! — for  the  shame 
Of  thy  own  daughters,  vengeance  came 
Full  on  the  scornful  hearts  of  those, 

Who  mocked  thee  in  thy  nameless  woes, 
And  to  thy  hapless  children  gave 
One  choice  — pollution,  or  the  grave  ! 


TOUSSAINT  VOUVERTURE.  149 


Where  then  was  he,  whose  fiery  zeal 
Had  taught  the  trampled  heart  to  feel, 

Until  despair  itself  grew  strong, 

And  vengeance  fed  its  torch  from  wrong? 

Now  — when  the  thunder-bolt  is  speeding; 
Now  — when  oppression’s  heart  is  bleeding; 
Now  — when  the  latent  curse  of  Time 
Is  raining  flown  in  fire  and  blood  — 

That  curse  which,  through  long  years  of  crime, 
Has  gathered,  drop  by  drop,  its  flood  — 
Why  strikes  he  not,  the  foremost  one, 

Where  murder’s  sternest  deeds  are  done  ? 

He  stood  the  aged  palms  beneath, 

That  shadowed  o’er  his  humble  door, 
Listening,  with  half-suspended  breath, 

To  the  wild  sounds  of  fear  and  death  — 
Toussaint  l’Ouverture  ! 

What  marvel  that  his  heart  beat  high  ! 

The  blow  for  freedom  had  been  given ; 

And  blood  had  answered  to  the  cry 
Which  earth  sent  up  to  Heaven  ! 

What  marvel,  that  a fierce  delight 
Smiled  grimly  o’er  his  brow  of  night, 

As  groan,  and  shout,  and  bursting  flame, 

Told  where  the  midnight  tempest  came, 

With  blood  and  fire  along  its  van, 

And  death  behind  ! — he  was  a MAN  ! 


ISO  TOUSSAINT  UOUVERTURE. 


Yes,  dark-souled  chieftain  ! — if  the  light 
Of  mild  Religion’s  heavenly  ray 
Unveiled  not  to  thy  mental  sight 
The  lowlier  and  the  purer  way, 

In  which  the  Holy  Sufferer  trod, 

Meekly  amidst  the  sons  of  crime,  — 
That  calm  reliance  upon  God 

For  justice,  in  his  own  good  time, — 
That  gentleness,  to  which  belongs 
Forgiveness  for  its  many  wrongs, 

Even  as  the  primal  martyr,  kneeling 
For  mercy  on  the  evil-dealing,  — 

Let  not  the  favored  white  man  name 
Thy  stern  appeal,  with  words  of  blame. 
Has  he  not,  with  the  light  of  heaven 
Broadly  around  him,  made  the  same  ? 
Yea,  on  his  thousand  war-fields  striven, 
And  gloried  in  his  ghastly  shame  ? — 
Kneeling  amidst  his  brother’s  blood, 

To  offer  mockery  unto  God, 

As  if  the  High  and  Holy  One 
Could  smile  on  deeds  of  murder  done ! — 
As  if  a human  sacrifice 
Were  purer  in  his  holy  eyes, 

Though  offered  up  by  Christian  hands, 
Than  the  foul  rites  of  Pagan  lands  ! 

Sternly,  amidst  his  household  band, 

His  carbine  grasped  within  his  hand, 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE.  15 1 

The  white  man  stood,  prepared  and  still, 
Waiting  the  shock  of  maddened  men, 
Unchained,  and  fierce  as  tigers,  when 

The  horn  winds  through  their  caverned  hill. 
And  one  was  weeping  in  his  sight  — 

The  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  isle,  — 

The  bride  who  seemed  but  yesternight 
Love’s  fair  embodied  smile. 

And,  clinging  to  her  trembling  knee, 

Looked  up  the  form  of  infancy, 

With  tearful  glance  in  either  face, 

The  secret  of  its  fear  to  trace. 

“ Ha  — stand,  or  die  ! ” The  white  man’s  eye 
His  steady  musket  gleamed  along, 

As  a tall  Negro  hastened  nigh, 

With  fearless  step  and  strong. 

“ What,  ho,  Toussaint  !”  A moment  more, 
His  shadow  crossed  the  lighted  floor. 

“ Away,”  he  shouted  ; “fly  with  me,  — 

The  white  man’s  bark  is  on  the  sea ; — 

Her  sails  must  catch  the  seaward  wind, 

For  sudden  vengeance  sweeps  behind. 

Our  brethren  from  their  graves  have  spoken, 
The  yoke  is  spurned  — the  chain  is  broken ; 

On  all  the  hills  our  fires  are  glowing  — 

Through  all  the  vales  red  blood  is  flowing ! 

No  more  the  mocking  White  shall  rest 
His  foot  upon  the  Negro’s  breast ; 


152  TO  US  SAINT  VOUVERTURE . 


No  more,  at  morn  or  eve,  shall  drip 
The  warm  blood  from  the  driver’s  whip  ; — 

Yet,  though  Toussaint  has  vengeance  sworn 
For  all  the  wrongs  his  race  have  borne,  — 
Though  for  each  drop  of  Negro  blood 
The  white  man’s  veins  shall  pour  a flood ; 

Not  all  alone  the  sense  of  ill 
Around  his  heart  is  lingering  still, 

Nor  deeper  can  the  white  man  feel 
The  generous  warmth  of  grateful  zeal. 

Friends  of  the  Negro  ! fly  with  me  — 

The  path  is  open  to  the  sea : 

Away,  for  life  ! ” — He  spoke,  and  pressed 
The  young  child  to  his  manly  breast, 

As,  headlong,  through  the  cracking  cane, 

Down  swept  the  dark  insurgent  train  — 

Drunken  and  grim,  with  shout  and  yell 
Howled  through  the  dark,  like  sounds  from  hell! 

Far  out,  in  peace,  the  white  man’s  sail 
Swayed  free  before  the  sunrise  gale. 

Cloud-like  that  island  hung  afar, 

Along  the  bright  horizon’s  verge, 

O’er  which  the  curse  of  servile  war 
Rolled  its  red  torrent,  surge  on  surge. 

And  he  — the  Negro  champion  — where 
In  the  fierce  tumult,  struggled  he? 

Go  trace  him  by  the  fiery  glare 
Of  dwellings  in  the  midnight  air  — 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE.  153 

The  yells  of  triumph  and  despair  — 

The  streams  that  crimson  to  the  sea ! 

Sleep  calmly  in  thy  dungeon-tomb, 

-Beneath  Besanc^on’s  alien  sky, 

Dark  Haytien ! — for  the  time  shall  come, 

Yea,  even  now  is  nigh  — 

When,  everywhere,  thy  name  shall  be 
Redeemed  from  color's  infamy j 
And  men  shall  learii  to  speak  of  thee, 

As  one  of  earth’s  great  spirits,  born 
In  servitude,  and  nursed  in  scorn, 

Casting  aside  the  weary  weight 
And  fetters  of  its  low  estate, 

In  that  strong  majesty  of  soul, 

Which  knows  no  color,  tongue  or  dime  — 
Which  still  hath  spurned  the  base  control 
Of  tyrants  through  all  time  ! 

Far  other  hands  than  mine  may  wreathe 
The  laurel  round  thy  brow  of  death, 

And  speak  thy  praise,  as  one  whose  word 
A thousand  fiery  spirits  stirred,  — 

Who  crushed  his  foeman  as  a worm  — 

Whose  step  on  human  hearts  fell  firm  : — 46 
Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
A tribute  for  thy  lofty  mind, 

Amidst  whose  gloomy  vengeance  shone 
Some  milder  virtues  all  thine  own,  — 

Some  gleams  of  feeling  pure  and  warm, 


THE  SLAVE  SHIPS. 


T54 


Like  sunshine  on  a sky  of  storm,  — 
Proofs  that  the  Negro’s  heart  retains 
Some  nobleness  amidst  its  chains,  — 
That  kindness  to  the  wronged  is  never 
Without  its  excellent  reward,  — 
Holy  to  human-kind,  and  ever 
Acceptable  to  God. 


THE  SLAVE  SHIPS.47 

“ That  fatal,  that  perfidious  bark, 

Built  i’  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark.” 

Milton’s  Lycidas. 


“ All  ready?  ” cried  the  captain  ; 

“ Ay,  ay  ! ” the  seamen  said  ; 
u Heave  up  the  worthless  lubbers  — 
The  dying  and  the  dead.” 

Up  from  the  slave-ship’s  prison 

Fierce,  bearded  heads  were  thrust  — 
“ Now  let  the  sharks  look  to  it  — 

Toss  up  the  dead  ones  first ! ” 

Corpse  after  corpse  came  up,  — 

Death  had  been  busy  there  ; 

Where  every  blow  is  mercy, 

Why  should  the  spoiler  spare  ? 


THE  SLAVE  SHIPS.  IS5 

Corpse  after  corpse  they  cast 
Sullenly  from  the  ship, 

Yet  bloody  with  the  traces 
Of  fetter-link  and  whip. 

Gloomily  stood  the  captain, 

With  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 

With  his  cold  brow  sternly  knotted, 

And  his  iron  lip  compressed. 

“ Are  all  the  dead  dogs  over?” 

Growled  through  that  matted  lip  — 

“ The  blind  ones  are  no  better, 

Let’s  lighten  the  good  ship.” 

Hark ! from  the  ship’s  dark  bosom, 

The  very  sounds  of  hell ! 

The  ringing  clank  of  iron  — 

The  maniac’s  short,  sharp  yell ! — 

The  hoarse,  low  curse,  throat-stifled  — 

The  starving  infant’s  moan  — 

The  horror  of  a breaking  heart 
Poured  through  a mother’s  groan ! 

Up  from  that  loathsome  prison 
The  stricken  blind  ones  came : 

Below,  had  all  been  darkness  — 

Above,  was  still  the  same, 

Yet  the  holy  breath  of  heaven 
Was  sweetly  breathing  there, 


*5$ 


THE  SLAVE  SHIPS. 


And  the  heated  brow  of  fever 
Cooled  in  the  soft  sea  air. 

“Overboard  with  them,  shipmates!” 
Cutlass  and  dirk  were  plied ; 

Fettered  and  blind,  one  after  one, 
Plunged  down  the  vessel’s  side. 

The  sabre  smote  above  — 

Beneath,  the  lean  shark  lay, 

Waiting  with  wide  and  bloody  jaw 
His  quick  and  human  prey. 

God  of  the  earth  ! what  cries 
Rang  upward  unto  Thee  ? 

Voices  of  agony  and  blood, 

From  ship-deck  and  from  sea. 

The  last  dull  plunge  was  heard  — 
The  last  wave  caught  its  stain  — 

And  the  unsated  shark  looked  up 
For  human  hearts  in  vain. 


Red  glowed  the  western  waters  — 

The  setting  sun  was  there, 

Scattering  alike  on  wave  and  cloud 
His  fiery  mesh  of  hair. 

Amidst  a group  in  blindness, 

A solitary  eye 

Gazed,  from  the  burdened  slaver’s  deck, 
Into  that  burning  sky. 


THE  SLAVE  SHIPS. 


*57 


“ A storm,”  spoke  out  the  gazer, 

“ Is  gathering  and  at  hand  — 

Curse  on’t — I’d  give  my  other  eye 
For  one  firm  rood  of  land.” 

And  then  he  laughed  — but  only 
His  echoed  laugh  replied  — 

For  the  blinded  and  the  suffering 
Alone  were  at  his  side. 

Night  settled  on  the  waters, 

And  on  a stormy  heaven, 

While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship’s  track 
The  thunder-gust  was  driven. 

A sail ! — thank  God,  a sail ! ” 

And,  as  the  helmsman  spoke, 

Up  through  the  stormy  murmur, 

A shout  of  gladness  broke. 

Down  came  the  stranger  vessel 
Unheeding  on  her  way, 

So  near,  that  on  the  slaver’s  deck 
Fell  off  her  driven  spray. 

“ Ho  ! for  the  love  of  mercy  — 

We’re  perishing  and  blind  ! ” 

A wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind  : 

“ Help  us!  for  we  are  stricken 
With  blindness  every  one ; 


THE  SLAVE  SHIPS . 


*5* 

Ten  days  we’ve  floated  fearfully. 
Unnoting  star  or  sun, 

Our  ship’s  the  slaver  Leon  — 

We’ve  but  a score  on  board  — 

Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over  — 

Help  — for  the  love  of  God  ! ” 

On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The  broad  red  lightning  shone  -=• 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thunder 
Stifled  the  answering  groan. 
Wailed  from  the  broken  waters 
A last  despairing  cry, 

As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by. 

In  the  sunny  Guadaloupe 
A dark  hulled  vessel  lay  — 

With  a crew  who  noted  never 
The  night-fall  or  the  day. 

The  blossom  of  the  orange 
Was  white  by  every  stream, 

And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and  bird 
Were  in  the  warm  sunbeam. 

And  the  sky  was  bright  as  ever, 

And  the  moonlight  slept  as  well, 
On  the  palm-trees  by  the  hill-side, 
And  thNe  streamlet  of  the  dell ; 


OUR  COUNTRYMEN  in  CHAINS.  159" 

And  the  glances  of  the  Creole 
Were  still  as  archly  deep, 

And  her  smiles  as  full  as  ever 
. Of  passion  and  of  sleep. 

But  vain  were  bird  and  blossom, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sky, 

And  the  smile  of  human  faces, 

To  the  slaver’s  darkened  eye ; 

At  the  breaking  of  the  morning, 

At  the  star-lit  evening  time, 

O’er  a world  of  light  and  beauty, 

Fell  the  blackness  of  his  crime. 


STANZAS. 

Our  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  ! 48 

Slaves  — in  a land  of  light  and  law ! 

Slaves  — crouching  on  the  very  plains 
Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom’s  war! 
A groan  from  Eutaw’s  haunted  wood  — 

A wail  where  Camden’s  martyrs  fell  — 

By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From  Moultrie’s  wall  and  Jasper’s  well! 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 


i6o  OUR  COUNTRYMEN  IN  CHAINS. 

Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion’s  men ! 

The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there  — 

The  falling  lash  — the  fetter’s  clank  ! 

Slaves  — slaves  are  breathing  in  that  air, 
Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank  ! 

What,  ho  ! — our  countrymen  in  chains  ! 

The  whip  on  woman’s  shrinking  flesh ! 

Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains, 

Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and  fresh ! 

What ! mothers  from  their  children  riven  ! 
What ! God’s  own  image  bought  and  sold  I 

Americans  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold  ! 

Speak  ! shall  their  agony  of  prayer 
Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 

To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 
The  paltry  menace  of  a chain  ; 

To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 
Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light  — 

Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong 
Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right? 

What ! shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 

Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom,  or  a grave?  ' 


OUR  COUNTRYMEN  IN  CHAINS.  I 


Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 
For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning, 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 
Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning? 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vendome’s  pile  and  Schoenbrun’s  wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call? 

And  shall  the  slave  beneath  our  eye, 

Clank  o’er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain? 

And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom’s  gift,  in  vain? 

Oh,  say,  shall  Prussia’s  banner  be 
A refuge  for  the  stricken  slave? 

And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 
By  Baikal’s  lake  and  Neva’s  wave? 

And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 
Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 

And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain 
From  fettered  soul  and  limb,  aside? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England’s  flag 
Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free, 

From  “ farthest  Ind  ” to  each  blue  crag 
That  beetles  o’er  the  Western  Sea? 

And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe’s  kings, 

When  Freedom’s  fire  is  dim  with  us, 

And  round  our  country’s  altar  clings 
The  damning  shade  of  Slavery’s  curse? 


162  our  countrymen  in  chains. 


Go  — let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland’s  throat ; 

And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud’s  line 
To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote  — 

Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful  Russ: 

“ Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home, 
Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us ! ” 

Just  God  ! and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 

The  Christian’s  scorn  — the  heathen’s  mirth 

Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 
And  by-word  of  a mocking  Earth  ? 

Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to  bear? 

Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 
Which  not  even  Russia’s  menials  wear? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom’s  manly  part, 

From  gray-beard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 

And  on  the  nation’s  naked  heart 
Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth  ! 

Up  — while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 
The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing  ! 

Up  — while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 
In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing ! 

Oh ! rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth  — 
The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man  — 


OUR  COUNTRYMEN  IN  CHAINS.  163 

Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt’s  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 

Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath? 

Up  — up  — why  will  ye  slumber  where 
The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death? 

Up  now  for  Freedom  ! — not  in  strife 
Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw  — 

The  awful  waste  of  human  life  — 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war : 

But  break  the  chain  — the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  oppression’s  rod, 

With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God  ! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood ; 

Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 
His  daily  cup  of  human  blood  : 

But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, 

And  Freedom’s  gift,  and  Freedom’s  prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heaven! 


164 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL. 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL. 

She  sings  by  her  wheel,  at  that  low  cottage- 
door, 

Which  the  long  evening  shadow  is  stretching 
before, 

With  a music  as  sweet  as  the  music  which 
seems 

Breathed  softly  and  faint  in  the  ear  of  our 
dreams  ! 

How  brilliant  and  mirthful  the  light  of  her  eye, 

Like  a star  glancing  out  from  the  blue  of  the 
sky  ! 

And  lightly  and  freely  her  dark  tresses  play 

O’er  a brow  and  a bosom  as  lovely  as  they ! 

Who  comes  in  his  pride  to  that  low  cottage- 
door  — 

The  haughty  and  rich  to  the  humble  and  poor? 

’Tis  the  great  Southern  planter  — the  master 
who  waves 

His  whip  of  dominion  o’er  hundreds  of  slaves. 

“Nay,  Ellen  — for  shame!  Let  those  Yankee 
fools  spin, 

Who  would  pass  for  our  slaves  with  a change  of 
their  skin  ; 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL . 165 

Let  them  toil  as  they  will  at  the  loom  or  the 
wheel, 

Too  stupid  for  shame,  and  too  vulgar  to  feel ! 


But  thou  art  too  lovely  and  precious  a gem 

To  be  bound  to  their  burdens  and  sullied  by 
them  — 

For  shame,  Ellen,  shame!  — cast  thy  bondage 
aside, 

And  away  to  the  South,  as  my  blessing  and 
pride. 

“Oh,  come  where  no  winter  thy  footsteps  can 
wrong, 

But  where  flowers  are  blossoming  all  the  year 
long, 

Where  the  shade  of  the  palm-tree  is  over  my 
home, 

And  the  lemon  and  orange  are  white  in  their 
bloom  ! 

Oh,  come  to  my  home,  where  my  servants  shall 
all 

Depart  at  thy  bidding  and  come  at  thy  call ; 

They  shall  heed  thee  as  mistress  with  trembling 
and  awe, 

And  each  wish  of  thy  heart  shall  be  felt  as  a 
law.” 


1 66  THE  YANKEE  GIRL . 

Oh,  could  ye  have  seen  her  — that  pride  of  our 
girls  — 

Arise  and  cast  back  the  dark  wealth  of  her  curls, 

With  a scorn  in  her  eye  which  the  gazer  could 
feel, 

And  a glance  like  the  sunshine  that  flashes  on 
steel ! 

“ Go  back,  haughty  Southron!  thy  treasures  of 
gold 

Are  dim  with  the  blood  of  the  hearts  thou  hast 
sold ; 

Thy  home  may  be  lovely,  but  round  it  I hear 

The  crack  of  the  whip  and  the  footsteps  of  fear ! 

“ And  the  sky  of  thy  South  may  be  brighter  than 
ours, 

And  greener  thy  landscapes,  and  fairer  thy 
flowers ; 

But,  dearer  the  blast  round  our  mountains  which 
raves, 

Than  the  sweet  summer  zephyr  which  breathes 
over  slaves ! 

“Full  low  at  thy  bidding  thy  negroes  may  kneel, 

With  the  iron  of  bondage  on  spirit  and  heel ; 

Yet  know  that  the  Yankee  girl  sooner  would 
be 

In  fetters  with  them,  than  in  freedom  with  thee ! ” 


TO  W.  L.  G. 


167 


TO  W.  L.  G. 

1833. 

Champion  of  those  who  groan  beneath 
Oppression’s  iron  hand : 

In  view  of  penury,  hate,  and  death, 

I see  thee  fearless  stand. 

Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

In  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 

In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 
And  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on ! — for  thou  hast  chosen  well ; 

On  in  the  strength  of  God  ! 

Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 
Beneath  the  tyrant’s  rod. 

Speak  in  a slumbering  nation’s  ear, 

As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 

Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear  — 

The  fetter’s  link  be  broken ! 

I love  thee  with  a brother’s  love, 

I feel  my  pulses  thrill, 

To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 
The  cloud  of  human  ill, 

My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 
And  echo  back  thy  words, 


i68 


TO  W.  L.  G. 


As  leaps  the  warrior’s  at  the  shine 
And  flash  of  kindred  swords  ! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain  — 

A searcher  after  fame  — 

That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 
A long  enduring  name  — 

That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric’s  hand, 
And  steeled  the  Afric’s  heart, 

To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 

Have  I not  known  thee  well,  and  read 
Thy  mighty  purpose  long  ! 

And  watched  the  trials  which  have  made 
Thy  human  spirit  strong? 

And  shall  the  slanderer’s  demon  breath 
Avail  with  one  like  me, 

To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 
And  earnest  truth  in  thee  ? 

Go  on  — the  dagger’s  point  may  glare 
Amid  thy  pathway’s  gloom  — 

The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 
Is  glorious  martyrdom  ! 

Then  onward  with  a martyr’s  zeal  — 
Press  on  to  thy  reward  — 

The  hour  when  man  shall  only  kneel 
Before  his  Father  — God. 


SONG  OF  THE  FREE. 


169 


SONG  OF  THE  FREE.49 

1836. 

Pride  of  New  England  ! 

Soul  of  our  fathers  ! 

Shrink  we  all  craven-like, 

When  the  storm  gathers? 

What  though  the  tempest  be 
Over  us  lowering, 

Where’s  the  New  Englander 
Shamefully  cowering? 

Graves  green  and  holy 
Around  us  are  lying,  — 

Free  were  the  sleepers  all, 
Living  and  dying ! 

Back  with  the  Southerner’s 
Padlocks  and  scourges ! 

Go — let  him  fetter  down 
Ocean’s  free  surges  ! 

Go  — let  him  silence 

Winds,  clouds,  and  waters  — 

Never  New  England’s  own 
Free  sons  and  daughters  ! 


SONG  OF  THE  FREE. 


Free  as  our  rivers  are 
Ocean-ward  going  — 

Free  as  the  breezes  are 
Over  us  blowing. 

Up  to  our  altars,  then, 

Haste  we,  and  summon 
Courage  and  loveliness, 
Manhood  and  woman  ! 
Deep  let  our  pledges  be  : 
Freedom  for  ever  ! 

Truce  with  oppression, 
Never,  oh!  never! 

By  our  own  birthright-gift, 
Granted  of  Heaven  — 
Freedom  for  heart  and  lip, 
Be  the  pledge  given ! 

If  we  have  whispered  truth, 
Whisper  no  longer ; 

Speak  as  the  tempest  does, 
Sterner  and  stronger ; 

Still  be  the  tones  of  truth 
Louder  and  firmer, 
Startling  the  haughty  South 
With  the  deep  murmur : 
God  and  our  charter’s  right, 
Freedom  for  ever ! 

Tnice  with  oppression, 
Never,  oh!  never! 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN. 


17 1 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN.50 

Have  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,  o’er  mountain  and 
glen, 

Through  cane-brake  and  forest  — the  hunting  of 
men? 

The  lords  of  our  land  to  this  hunting  have  gone. 

As  the  fox-hunter  follows  the  sound  of  the  horn  : 

Hark ! — the  cheer  and  the  hallo  ! — the  crack 
of  the  whip, 

And  the  yell  of  the  hound  as  he  fastens  his  grip ! 

All  blithe  are  our  hunters,  and  noble  their 
match  — 

Though  hundreds  are  caught,  there  are  millions 
to  catch. 

So  speed  to  their  hunting,  o’er  mountain  and 
glen, 

Through  cane-brake  and  forest  — the  hunting  of 
men  ! 

Gay  luck  to  our  hunters  ! — how  nobly  they  ride 

In  the  glow  of  their  zeal,  and  the  strength  of 
their  pride ! — 

The  priest  with  his  cassock  flung  back  on  the 
wind, 

Just  screening  the  politic  statesman  behind  — 

The  saint  and  the  sinner,  with  cursing  and 
prayer  — 


172 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN 


The  drunk  and  the  sober,  ride  merrily  there. 

And  woman  — kind  woman  — wife,  widow,  and 
maid  — 

For  the  good  of  the  hunted,  is  lending  her  aid  : 

Her  foot’s  in  the  stirrup  — her  hand  on  the 
rein  — 

How  blithely  she  rides  to  the  hunting  of  men ! 

Oh  ! goodly  and  grand  is  our  hunting  to  see, 

In  this  “ land  of  the  brave  and  this  home  of  the 
free.” 

Priest,  warrior,  and  statesman,  from  Georgia  to 
Maine, 

All  mounting  the  saddle  — all  grasping,  the 
rein  — 

Right  merrily  hunting  the  black  man,  whose  sin 

Is  the  curl  of  his  hair  and  the  hue  of  his  skin ! 

Woe,  now,  to  the  hunted  who  turns  him  at  bay! 

Will  our  hunters  be  turned  from  their  purpose 
and  prey? 

Will  their  hearts  fail  within  them  ? — their  nerves 
tremble,  when 

All  roughly  they  ride  to  the  hunting  of  men? 

Ho!  — alms  for  our  hunters!  all  weary  and 
faint 

Wax  the  curse  of  the  sinner  and  prayer  of  the 
saint. 

The  horn  is  wound  faintly  — the  echoes  are  still, 

Over  cane-brake  and  river,  and  forest  and  hill. 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN. 


*73 


Haste  — alms  for  our  hunters  ! the  hunted  once 
more 

Have  turned  from  their  flight  with  their  backs 
. to  the  shore  : 

What  right  have  they  here  in  the  home  of  the 
white, 

Shadowed  o’er  by  our  banner  of  Freedom  and 
Right? 

Ho  ! — alms  for  the  hunters  ! or  never  again 

Will  they  ride  in  their  pomp  to  the  hunting  of 
men ! 

Alms  — alms  for  our  hunters ! why  will  ye 
delay, 

When  their  pride  and  their  glory  are  melting 
away? 

The  parson  has  turned ; for,  on  charge  of  his 
own, 

Who  goeth  a warfare,  or  hunting,  alone? 

The  politic  statesman  looks  back  with  a sigh  — 

There  is  doubt  in  his  heart  — there  is  fear  in  his 
eye. 

Oh  ! haste,  lest  that  doubting  and  fear  shall 
prevail, 

And  the  head  of  his  steed  take  the  place  of  the 
tail. 

Oh ! haste,  ere  he  leave  us ! for  who  will  ride 
then, 

For  pleasure  or  gain,  to  the  hunting  of  men? 


1 7 4 CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS . 


CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS.61 

Just  God  ! — and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  Thine  altar,  God  of  Right ! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and  blessing 
lay 

On  Israel’s  Ark  of  light ! 

What ! preach  and  kidnap  men  ? 

Give  thanks  — and  rob  Thy  own  afflicted  poor? 
Talk  of  Thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 
Bolt  hard  the  captive’s  door? 

What ! servants  of  Thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and  save 
The  homeless  and  the  outcast,  — fettering  down 
The  tasked  and  plundered  slave  ! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends  ! 

Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  combine ! 
Just  God  and  holy ! is  that  church,  which  lends 
Strength  to  the  spoiler,  Thine? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which  search  and 
burn 

In  warning  and  rebuke ; 


CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS.  17$ 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed! 

And,  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank  the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondman’s  utter  need, 

Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  O Lord ! how  long 
Shall  such  a priesthood  barter  truth  away, 

And,  in  Thy  name,  for  robbery  and  wrong 
At  Thy  own  altars  pray? 

Is  not  Thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in  the  heavens,  to  awe  and  smite? 

Shall  not  the  living  God  of  all  the  earth, 

And  heaven  above,  do  right? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a common  Father  down  ! 

To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immortal  mind 
Its  bright  and  glorious  crown  ! 

Woe  to  the  priesthood  ! woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price  of  blood  — 
Perverting,  darkening,  changing  as  they  go, 

The  searching  truths  of  God  ! 


Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish ; and  their  very  names  shall  be 
Vile  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 
Of  a world’s  liberty. 


176  THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE. 

Oh  ! speed  the  moment  on 
When  Wrong  shall  cease  — and  Liberty,  and 
Love, 

And  Truth,  and  Right,  throughout  the  earth  be 
known 

As  in  their  home  above. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE.62 

A Christian  ! going,  gone  ! 

Who  bids  for  God’s  own  image  ? — for  His  grace 
Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market-place 
Hath  in  her  suffering  won  ? 

My  God  ! can  such  things  be  ? 

Hast  thou  not  said  that  whatsoe’er  is  done 
Unto  Thy  weakest  and  Thy  humblest  one, 

Is  even  done  to  thee  ? 

In  that  sad  victim,  then, 

Child  of  Thy  pitying  love,  I see  Thee  stand  — 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a mocking  band, 
Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again  ! 

A Christian  up  for  sale ! 

Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips  — o’ertask  her 
frame, 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE . 


177 


Make  her  life  loathsome  with  your  wrong  and 
shame, 

Her  patience  shall  not  fail ! 

A heathen  hand  might  deal 
Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong  of  years, 
But  her  low,  broken  prayer  and  nightly  tears, 

Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o’er, 

Thou  prudent  teacher  — tell  the  toiling  slave 
No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to  save 

The  outcast  and  the  poor. 

But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God’s  free  Gospel  from  her  simple  heart. 

And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart 

One  stern  command  — “ Obey  ! ” 53 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price  of  human  flesh  ; and  while 
On  thee,  their  pampered  guest,  the  planters 
smile. 

Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work  was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom,  first  and  best. 

Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 


l?S  THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE. 

Oh,  shame  ! the  Moslem  thrall, 

Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet  kneels, 
While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla  feels 

His  fetters  break  and  fall. 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis  ! he  hath  torn 
The  dark  slave-dungeons  open,  and  hath  borne 

Their  inmates  into  day : 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 
Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine  his  aching  eyes  — 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market  price, 

And  rivet  on  his  chain.54 

God  of  all  right ! how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers  at  Thine  altar  stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  Thee,  the  bloody  hand 

And  haughty  brow  of  wrong? 

Oh,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 

From  the  low  rice-swamp,  from  the  trader’s  cell  — 
From  the  black  slave-ship’s  foul  and  loathsome 
hell,* 

And  coffie’s  weary  chain, — 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 

Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 

Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 

How  long,  Oh  God,  how  long? 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES . 179 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES.5® 

Is  this  -the  land  our  fathers  loved, 

The  freedom  which  they  toiled  to  win? 

Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved  ? 

Are  these  the  graves  they  slumber  in  ? 

Are  we  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 
The  mantles  which  the  dead  have  worn? 

And  shall  we  crouch  above  these  graves. 

With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip? 

Yoke  in  with  marked  and  branded  slaves. 

And  tremble  at  the  driver’s  whip? 

Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 

And  speak  — but  as  our  masters  please  ? 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel  ? 

Shall  Mercy’s  tears  no  longer  flow? 

Shall  rufflan  threats  of  cord  and  steel  — 

The  dungeon’s  gloom  — the  assassin’s  blow* 
Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The  Truth,  our  Country,  and  the  Slave? 

Of  human  skulls  that  shrine  was  made, 

Round  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 
Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed  — 

Is  Freedom’s  altar  fashioned  so? 


I So  STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 

And  must  we  yield  to  Freedom’s  God, 

As  offering  meet,  the  negro’s  blood? 

Shall  tongues  be  mute,  when  deeds  are  wrought 
Which  well  might  shame  extremest  hell? 

Shall  freemen  lock  the  indignant  thought? 

Shall  Pity’s  bosom  cease  to  swell? 

Shall  Honor  bleed? — Shall  Truth  succumb? 
Shall  pen,  and  press,  and  soul  be  dumb? 

No  — by  each  spot  of  haunted  ground, 

Where  Freedom  weeps  her  children’s  fall  — 
By  Plymouth’s  rock,  and  Bunker’s  mound  — 

By  Griswold’s  stained  and  shattered  wall  — 
By  Warren’s  ghost  — by  Langdon’s  shade  — 

By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead  ! 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them  set  — 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet,  — 

By  all  above  — around  — below  — 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer  — NO  ! 

No  — guided  by  our  country’s  laws, 

For  truth,  and  right,  and  suffering  man, 

Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom’s  cause, 

As  Christians  may  — as  freemen  can  / 

Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 
That  truth  oppression  only  fears.. 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES.  iBi 


What ! shall  we  guard  our  neighbor  still, 

While  woman  shrieks  beneath  his  rod, 

And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 
The  image  of  a common  God  ! 

Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him  set, 

Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet? 

And  shall  we  know  and  share  with  him 
The  danger  and  the  growing  shame  ? 

And  see  our  Freedom’s  light  grow  dim, 

Which  should  have  filled  the  world  with  flame  ? 
And,  writhing,  feel,  where’er  we  turn, 

A world’s  reproach  around  us  burn? 

Is’t  not  enough  that  this  is  borne? 

And  asks  our  hearty  neighbor  more? 

Must  fetters  which  his  slaves  have  worn, 

Clank  round  the  Yankee  farmer’s  door? 

Must  he  be  told,  beside  his  plough, 

What  he  must  speak,  and  when,  and  how? 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 

On  Slavery’s  dark  foundations  strong  — 

On  breaking  hearts  and  fettered  hands, 

On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong? 

That  all  his  fathers  taught  is  vain  — 

That  Freedom’s  emblem  is  the  chain? 

Its  life  — its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn? 

False  — foul  — profane  ! Go  — teach  as  well 


182 


RITNER. 


Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born  ! 

Of  Heaven  refreshed  by  airs  from  Hell ! 
Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice  ! 

Of  Demons  planting  Paradise  ! 

Rail  on,  then,  “ brethren  of  the  South  ” — 
Ye  shall  not  hear  the  truth  the  less  — 
No  seal  is  on  the  Yankee’s  mouth, 

No  fetter  on  the  Yankee’s  press! 

From  our  Green  Mountains  to  the  Sea, 
One  voice  shall  thunder  — We  are  free  ! 


LINE  S.66 

Thank  God  for  the  token ! — one  lip  is  still 
free  — 

One  spirit  untrammelled  — unbending  one  knee ! 

Like  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  deep-rooted  and 
firm, 

Erect,  when  the  multitude  bends  to  the  storm  ; 

When  traitors  to  Freedom,  and  Honor,  and 
God, 

Are  bowed  at  an  Idol  polluted  with  blood ; 

When  the  recreant  North  has  forgotten  her 
trust, 

And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the  dust,  — 


RITNER.  183 

Thank  God,  that  one  arm  from  the  shackle  has 
broken ! 

Thank  God,  that  one  man,  as  a freeman , has 
spoken  ! 

O’er  thy  crags,  Alleghany,  a blast  has  been 
blown ! 

Down  thy  tide,  Susquehanna,  the  murmur  has 
gone ! 

To  the  land  of  the  South  — of  the  charter  and 
chain  — 

Of  Liberty  sweetened  with  Slavery’s  pain  ; 

Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells  on  the  lips 

Of  the  forgers  of  fetters,  and  wielders  of  whips  ! 

Where  “ chivalric”  honor  means  really  no  more 

Than  scourging  of  women,  and  robbing  the 
poor ! 

Where  the  Moloch  of  Slavery  sitteth  on  high, 

And  the  words  which  he  utters  are  — Worship, 
or  die  ! 

Right  onward,  oh,  speed  it!  Wherever  the 
blood 

Of  the  wronged  and  the  guiltless  is  crying  to 
God  j 

Wherever  a slave  in  his  fetters  is  pining ; 

Wherever  the  lash  of  the  driver  is  twining ; 

Wherever  from  kindred,  torn  rudely  apart, 

Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the  broken  of 
heart ; 


184 


RITNER. 


Wherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny  bind, 

In  silence  and  darkness,  the  God-given  mind  $ 

There,  God  speed  it  onward!  — its  truth  will  be 
felt  — 

The  bonds  shall  be  loosened  — the  iron  shall 
melt ! 

And  oh,  will  the  land  where  the  free  soul  of 
Penn 

Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  mountain  and 
glen  — 

Will  the  land  where  a Benezet’s  spirit  went 
forth 

To  the  peeled,  and  the  meted,  and  outcast  of 
Earth, 

Where  the  words  of  the  Charter  of  Liberty  first 

From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and  the  patriot 
burst  — 

Where  first  for  the  wronged  and  the  weak  of 
their  kind, 

The  Christian  and  statesman  their  efforts  com- 
bined — 

Will  that  land  of  the  free  and  the  good  wear  a 
chain  ? 

Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom  be  vain? 

No,  Ritner!  — her  “Friends”  at  thy  warning 
shall  stand 

Erect  for  the  truth,  like  their  ancestral  band ; 


RITNEK. 


i85 

Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of  past  time. 

Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  silence  a crime  ; 

Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of  creeds,  to  unite 

Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of  the  Right ; 

Breasting  calmly,  but  firmly,  the  full  tide  of 
Wrong, 

Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on  its  surges  along ; 

Unappalled  by  the  danger,  the  shame,  and  the 
pain, 

And  counting  each  trial  for  Truth  as  their  gain  l 

And  that  bold-hearted  yeomanry,  honest  and 
true, 

Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor  its  due  ; 

Whose  fathers,  of  old,  sang  in  concert  with 
thine, 

On  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  Songs  of  the 
Rhine  — 

The  German-born  pilgrims,  who  first  dared  to 
brave 

The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause  of  the 
slave : 57  — 

Will  the  sons  of  such  men  yield  the  lords  of 
the  South 

One  brow  for  the  brand  — for  the  padlock  one 
mouth  ? 

They  cater  to  tyrants?  — They  rivet  the  chain, 

Which  their  fathers  smote  off,  on  the  negro 
again  ? 


1 86 


PASTORAL  LETTER. 


No,  never! — one  voice,  like  the  sound  in  the 
cloud, 

When  the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes  loud  and 
more  loud, 

Wherever  the  foot  of  the  freeman  hath  pressed 

From  the  Delaware’s  marge  to  the  Lake  of  the 
West, 

On  the  south-going  breezes  shall  deepen  and 
grow 

Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall  tremble  below  ! 

The  voice  of  a people  — uprisen  — awake  — 

Pennsylvania’s  watchword,  with  Freedom  at 
stake, 

Thrilling  up  from  each  valley,  flung  down  from 
each  height, 

44  Our  Country  and  Liberty  ! — God  for  the 
Right ! ” 


LINE  S.58 

So,  this  is  all  — the  utmost  reach 
Of  priestly  power  the  mind  to  fetter ! 

When  laymen  think  — when  women  preach  — 
A war  of  words  — a “ Pastoral  Letter ! ” 
Now,  shame  upon  ye,  parish  Popes ! 

Was  it  thus  with  those,  your  predecessors, 
Who  sealed  with  racks,  and  fire,  and  ropes 
Their  loving  kindness  to  transgressors  ? 


PASTORAL  LETTER . 


187 


A “ Pastoral  Letter,”  grave  and  dull  — 

Alas ! in  hoof  and  horns  and  features, 

How  different  is  your  Brookfield  bull, 

From  him  who  bellows  from  St.  Peter’s ! 

Your  pastoral  rights  and  powers  from  harm, 
Think  ye,  can  words  alone  preserve  them? 

Your  wiser  fathers  taught  the  arm 

And  sword  of  temporal  power  to  serve  them. 

Oh,  glorious  days  — when  church  and  state 
Were  wedded  by  your  .spiritual  fathers  ! 

And  on  submissive  shoulders  sat 

Your  Wilsons  and  your  Cotton  Mathers. 

No  vile  “ itinerant  ” then  could  mar 
The  beauty  of  your  tranquil  Zion, 

But  at  his  peril  of  the  scar 

Of  hangman’s  whip  and  branding-iron. 

Then,  wholesome  laws  relieved  the  church 
Of  heretic  and  mischief-maker, 

And  priest  and  bailiff  joined  in  search, 

By  turns,  of  Papist,  witch,  and  Quaker! 

The  stocks  were  at  each  church’s  door, 

The  gallows  stood  on  Boston  Common, 

A Papist’s  ears  the  pillory  bore,  — 

The  gallows-rope,  a Quaker  woman ! 

Your  fathers  dealt  not  as  ye  deal 

With  “ non-professing  ” frantic  teachers ; 


PASTORAL  LETTER . 


1 88 

They  bored  the  tongue  with  red-hot  steel, 

And  flayed  the  backs  of  “ female  preachers.” 
Old  Newbury,  had  her  fields  a tongue, 

And  Salem’s  streets  could  tell  their  story, 

Of  fainting  woman  dragged  along, 

Gashed  by  the  whip,  accursed  and  gory ! 

<\nd  will  ye  ask  me,  why  this  taunt 
Of  memories  sacred  from  the  scorner? 

A.nd  why  with  reckless  hand  I plant 
A nettle  on  the  graves  ye  honor? 

Not  to  reproach  New  England’s  dead 
This  record  from  the  past  I summon, 

Of  manhood  to  the  scaffold  led, 

And  suffering  and  heroic  woman. 

No  — for  yourselves  alone,  I turn 
The  pages  of  intolerance  over, 

That,  in  their  spirit,  dark  and  stern, 

Ye  haply  may  your  own  discover! 

For,  if  ye  claim  the  “ pastoral  right” 

To  silence  Freedom’s  voice  of  warning, 

And  from  your  precincts  shut  the  light 
Of  Freedom’s  day  around  ye  dawning; 

If  when  an  earthquake  voice  of  power, 

And  signs  in  earth  and  heaven  are  showing 
That,  forth,  in  its  appointed  hour, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  going  ! 


PASTORAL  LETTER . 


i 


And,  with  that  Spirit,  Freedom’s  light 
On  kindred,  tongue,  and  people  breaking, 
Whose  slumbering  millions,  at  the  sight, 

In  glory  a-*d  :n  strength  are  waking ! 

When  for  the  sighing  of  the  poor, 

And  for  the  needy,  God  hath  risen, 

And  chains  are  breaking,  and  a door 
is  opening  for  tne  souls  in  prison ! 
if  then  ye  would,  with  puny  hands, 

Arrest  the  very  work  of  Heaven, 

And  bind  anew  the  evil  bands 
Which  God’s  right  arm  of  power  hath  riven 

What  marvel  that,  in  many  a mind, 

Those  darker  deeds  of  bigot  madness 
Are  closely  with  your  own  combined, 

Yet  “ less  in  anger  than  in  sadness  ” ? 
What  marvel,  if  the  people  learn 
To  claim  the  right  of  free  opinion? 

What  marvel,  if  at  times  they  spurn 
The  ancient  yoke  of  your  dominion? 

Oh,  how  contrast,  with  such  as  ye, 

A Leavitt’s  free  and  generous  bearing. 

A Perry’s  calm  integrity, 

A Phelps’s  zeal  and  Christian  daring! 

A Follen’s  soul  of  sacrifice, 

And  May’s  with  kindness  overflowing ! 


190  PAS  TOR  A L LETTER . 

How  green  and  lovely  in  the  eyes 

Of  freemen  are  their  graces  growing  ! 

Ay,  there’s  a glorious  remnant  yet, 

Whose  lips  are  wet  at  Freedom’s  fountains, 
The  coming  of  whose  welcome  feet 
Is  beautiful  upon  our  mountains  ! 

Men,  who  the  gospel  tidings  bring 
Of  Liberty  and  Love  for  ever, 

Whose  joy  is  one  abiding  spring, 

Whose  peace  is  as  a gentle  river! 

But  ye,  who  scorn  the  thrilling  tale 
Of  Carolina’s  high-souled  daughters, 

Which  echoes  here  the  mournful  wail 
Of  sorrow  from  Edisto’s  waters, 

Close  while  ye  may  the  public  ear  — 

With  malice  vex,  with  slander  wound  them  — 
The  pure  and  good  shall  throng  to  hear, 

And  tried  and  manly  hearts  surround  them. 

Oh,  ever  may  the  power  which  led 
Their  way  to  such  a fiery  trial, 

And  strengthened  womanhood  to  tread 
The  wine-press  of  such  self-denial, 

Be  round  them  in  an  evil  land, 

With  wisdom  and  with  strength  from  Heaven, 
With  Miriam’s  voice,  and  Judith’s  hand, 

And  Deborah’s  song  for  triumph  given  ! 


LINES . 


191 

And  what  are  ye  who  strive  with  God, 

Against  the  ark  of  his  salvation, 

Moved  by  the  breath  of  prayer  abroad, 

With  blessings  for  a dying  nation? 

What,  but  the  stubble  and  the  hay 
To  perish,  even  as  flax  consuming, 

With  all  that  bars  His  glorious  way, 

Before  the  brightness  of  His  coming? 

And  thou,  sad  Angel,  who  so  long 
Hast  waited  for  the  glorious  token, 

That  Earth  from  all  her  bonds  of  wTrong 
To  liberty  and  light  has  broken  — 

Angel  of  Freedom  ! soon  to  thee 
The  sounding  trumpet  shall  be  given, 

And  over  Earth’s  full  jubilee 
Shall  deeper  joy  be  felt  in  Heaven ! 


LINES.59 

O Thou,  whose  presence  went  before 
Our  fathers  in  their  weary  way, 

As  with  thy  chosen  moved  of  yore 
The  fire  by  night  — the  cloud  by  day  \ 

When  from  each  temple  of  the  free, 

A nation’s  song  ascends  to  Heaven, 
Most  Holy  Father  ! unto  Thee 

May  not  our  humble  prayer  be  given  ? 


LINES . 


192 

Thy  children  all  — though  hue  and  form 
Are  varied  in  Thine  own  good  will  — 
With  Thy  own  holy  breathings  warm, 
And  fashioned  in  Thine  image  still. 

We  thank  Thee,  Father  ! — hill  and  plain 
Around  us  wave  their  fruits  once  more, 
And  clustered  vine,  and  blossomed  grain, 
Are  bending  round  each  cottage  door. 

And  peace  is  here ; and  hope  and  love 
Are  round  us  as  a mantle  thrown, 

And  unto  Thee,  supreme  above,. 

The  knee  of  prayer  is  bowed  alone. 

But  oh,  for  those  this  day  can  bring, 

As  unto  us,  no  joyful  thrill  — 

For  those  who,  under  Freedom's  wing, 
Are  bound  in  Slavery's  fetters  still : 

For  those  to  whom  Thy  living  word 
Of  light  and  love  is  never  given  — 

For  those  whose  ears  have  never  heard 
The  promise  and  the  hope  of  Heaven ! 

For  broken  heart,  and  clouded  mind, 
Whereon  no  human  mercies  fall  — 

Oh,  be  Thy  gracious  love  inclined, 

Who,  as  a father,  pitiest  all ! 


LINES. 


J93 


And  grant,  O Father ! that  the  time 
Of  Earth’s  deliverance  may  be  near, 
When  every  land,  and  tongue,  and  clime, 
The  message  of  Thy  love  shall  hear  — 

When,  smitten  as  with  fire  from  heaven, 
The  captive’s  chain  shall  sink  in  dust,. 
And  to  his  fettered  soul  be  given 
The  glorious  freedom  of  the  just ! 


LINE  S.60 

O holy  Father  ! — just  and  true 

Are  all  thy  works  and  words  and  ways, 

And  unto  Thee  alone  are  due 
Thanksgiving  and  eternal  praise  ! 

As  children  of  Thy  gracious  care, 

We  veil  the  eye* — we  bend  the  knee, 

With  broken  words  of  praise  and  prayer, 
Father  and  God,  we  come  to  Thee. 

For  Thou  hast  heard,  O God  of  Right, 
The  sighing  of  the  island  slave ; 

And  stretched  for  him  the  arm  of  might, 
Not  shortened  that  it  could  not  save. 

The  laborer  sits  beneath  his  vine, 

The  shackled  soul  and  hand  are  free  — 


194 


LINES. 


Thanksgiving  ! — for  the  work  is  Thine  ! 
Praise  ! — for  the  blessing  is  of  Thee  ! 

And  oh,  we  feel  Thy  presence  here  — 

Thy  awful  arm  in  judgment  bare  ! 

Thine  eye  hath  seen  the  bondman’s  tear  — 
Thine  ear  hath  heard  the  bondman’s  prayer 
Praise ! — for  the  pride  of  man  is  low, 

The  counsels  of  the  wise  are  nought, 

The  fountains  of  repentance  flow ; 

What  hath  our  God  in  mercy  wrought  ? 

Speed  on  Thy  work,  Lord  God  of  Hosts ! 

And  when  the  bondman’s  chain  is  riven, 
And  swells  from  all  our  guilty  coasts 
The  anthem  of  the  free  to  Heaven, 

Oh,  not  to  those  whom  Thou  hast  led. 

As  with  Thy  cloud  and  fire  before, 

But  unto  Thee,  in  fear  and  dread, 

Be  praise  and  glory  ever  more. 


LINE  S.61 

A few  brief  years  have  passed  away 
Since  Britain  drove  her  million  slaves 
Beneath  the  tropic’s  fiery  ray : 

God  willed  their  freedom  ; and  to-day 
Life  blooms  above  those  island  graves 


LINES. 


I 


He  spoke ! across  the  Carib  Sea, 

We  heard  the  clash  of  breaking  chains, 
And  felt  the  heart-throb  of  the  free, 

The  first,  strong  pulse  of  liberty 

Which  thrilled  along  the  bondman’s  veins. 

Though  long  delayed,  and  far,  and  slow, 

The  Briton’s  triumph  shall  be  ours  : 

Wears  slavery  here  a prouder  brow 
Than  that  which  twelve  short  years  ago 
Scowled  darkly  from  her  island  bowers  ? 

Mighty  alike  for  good  or  ill 

With  mother-land,  we  fully  share 
The  Saxon  strength  — the  nerve  of  steel  — 
The  tireless  energy  of  will,  — 

The  power  to  do,  the  pride  to  dare. 

What  she  has  done  can  we  not  do? 

Our  hour  and  men  are  both  at  hand ; 

The  blast  which  Freedom’s  angel  blew 
O’er  her  green  islands,  echoes  through 
Each  valley  of  our  forest  land. 

Hear  it,  old  Europe ! we  have  sworn 
The  death  of  slavery.  — When  it  falls 
Look  to  your  vassals  in  their  turn, 

Your  poor  dumb  millions,  crushed  and  worn, 
Your  prisons  and  your  palace  walls  ! 


196 


LINES. 


Oh,  kingly  mockers  ! — scoffing  show 
What  deeds  in  Freedom’s  name  we  do ; 

Yet  know  that  every  taunt  ye  throw 
Across  the  waters,  goads  our  slow 

Progression  towards  the  right  and  true. 

Not  always  shall  your  outraged  poor, 

Appalled  by  democratic  crime, 

Grind  as  their  fathers  ground  before,  — 

The  hour  which  sees  our  prison  door 
Swing  wide  shall  be  their  triumph  time. 

On  then,  my  brothers  ! every  blow 

Ye  deal  is  felt  the  wide  earth  through ; 
Whatever  here  uplifts  the  low 
Or  humbles  Freedom’s  hateful  foe, 

Blesses  the  Old  World  through  the  New. 

Take  heart ! The  promised  hour  draws  near  — 
I hear  the  downward  beat  of  wings, 

And  Freedom’s  trumpet  sounding  clear  — 

Joy  to  the  people  ! — woe  and  fear 

To  New  World  tyrants,  Old  World  kings ! ” 


THE  FAREWELL . 


1 97 


THE  FAREWELL 

OF  A VIRGINIA  SLAVE  MOTHER  TO  HER  DAUGH- 
TERS, SOLD  INTO  SOUTHERN  BONDAGE. 

Gone,  gone  — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 

Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 

Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 

Where  the  fever  demon  strews 
Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 

Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 
Through  the  hot  and  misty  air,  — 

Gone,  gone  — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia’s  hills  and  waters,  — 

Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone  — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 

There  no  mother’s  eye  is  near  them, 

There  no  mother’s  ear  can  hear  them ; 

Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a gash, 

Shall  a mother’s  kindness  bless  them, 

Or  a mother’s  arms  caress  them. 


Gone,  gone  — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia’s  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone  — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 

Oh,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 

From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 

Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 

To  their  cheerless  homes  again  — 

There  no  brother’s  voice  shall  greet  them  — 
There  no  father’s  welcome  meet  them. 

Gone,  gone  — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia’s  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone  — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 

From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood’s  place  of  play  — 

From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank — * 
Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank  — 

From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 

And  the  holy  counsels  there  — 

Gone,  gone  — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia’s  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 


THE  FAREWELL. 


199 


Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone  — 
Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 

And  at  night  the  spoiler’s  prey. 

Oh,  that  they  had  earlier  died, 
keeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 

Where  the  tyrant’s  power  is  o’er, 

And  the  fetter  galls  no  more  ! 

Gone,  gone  — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia’s  hills  and  waters,  — ■ 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone  — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth  — 

By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth  — 

Oh,  may  he,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 

Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 

With  a more  than  mother’s  love. 

Gone,  gone  — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia’s  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 


200 


ADDRESS. 


ADDRESS.62 

Not  with  the  splendors  of  the  days  of  old, 

The  spoil  of  nations,  and  “ barbaric  gold”  — 
No  weapons  wrested  from  the  fields  of  blood, 
Where  dark  and  stern  the  unyielding  Roman 
stood, 

And  the  proud  eagles  of  his  cohorts  saw 
A world,  war-wasted,  crouching  to  his  law'  — 
Nor  blazoned  car  — nor  banners  floating  gay, 
Like  those  which  swept  along  the  Appian  way, 
When,  to  the  welcome  of  imperial  Rome, 

The  victor  warrior  came  in  triumph  home, 

And  trumpet-peal,  and  shoutings  wild  and  high 
Stirred  the  blue  quiet  of  the  Italian  sky; 

But  calm  and  grateful,  prayerful  and  sincere, 

As  Christian  freemen,  only,  gathering  here, 

We  dedicate  our  fair  and  lofty  Hall, 

Pillar  and  arch,  entablature  and  wall, 

As  Virtue’s  shrine  — as  Liberty’s  abode  — 
Sacred  to  Freedom,  and  to  Freedom’s  God  ! 

Oh ! loftier  halls,  ’neath  brighter  skies  than 
these, 

Stood  darkly  mirrored  in  the  Aegean  seas, 

Pillar  and  shrine  — and  life-like  statues  seen, 
Graceful  and  pure,  the  marble  shafts  between, 


ADDRESS. 


201 


Where  glorious  Athens  from  her  rocky  hill 
Saw  Art  and  Beauty  subject  to  her  will  — 

And  the  chaste  temple,  and  the  classic  grove  — 
The  hall  of  sages  — and  the  bowers  of  love, 
Arch,  fane,  and  column,  graced  the  shores,  and 
gave 

Their  shadows  to  the  blue  Saronic  wave ; 

And  statelier  rose,  on  Tiber’s  winding  side, 

The  Pantheon’s  dome  — the  Coliseum’s  pride — • 
The  Capitol,  whose  arches  backward  flung 
The  deep,  clear  cadence  of  the  Roman  tongue, 
Whence  stern  decrees,  like  words  of  fate,  went 
forth 

To  the  awed  nations  of  a conquered  earth, 
Where  the  proud  Caesars  in  their  glory  came, 
And  Brutus  lightened  from  his  lips  of  flame  1 

Yet  iu  the  porches  of  Athena’s  halls, 

And  in  the  shadows  of  her  stately  walls, 

Lurked  the  sad  bondman,  and  his  tears  of  woe 
Wet  the  cold  marble  with  unheeded  flow ; 

And  fetters  clanked  beneath  the  silver  dome 
Of  the  proud  Pantheon  of  imperious  Rome. 

Oh ! not  for  him  — the  chained  and  stricken 
slave  — 

By  Tiber’s  shore,  or  blue  ^Rgina’s  wave, 

In  the  thronged  forum,  or  the  sages’  seat, 

The  bold  lip  pleaded,  and  the  warm  heart  beat; 
No  soul  of  sorrow  melted  at  his  pain, 

No  tear  of  pity  rusted  on  his  chain ! 


202 


ADDRESS. 


But  this  fair  Hall,  to  Truth  and  Freedom  given, 
Pledged  to  the  Right  before  all  Earth  and 
Heaven, 

A free  arena  for  the  strife  of  mind, 

To  caste,  or  sect,  or  color  unconfined, 

Shall  thrill  with  echoes,  such  as  ne’er  of  old 
From  Roman  hall,  or  Grecian  temple  rolled ; 
Thoughts  shall  find  utterance,  such  as  never  yet 
The  Propylea  or  the  Forum  met. 

Beneath  its  roof  no  gladiator’s  strife 
Shall  win  applauses  with  the  waste  of  life ; 

No  lordly  lictor  urge  the  barbarous  game  — 

No  wanton  Lais  glory  in  her  shame. 

But  here  the  tear  of  sympathy  shall  flow, 

As  the  ear  listens  to  the  tale  of  woe ; 

Here,  in  stern  judgment  of  the  oppressor’s 
wrong  — 

Shall  strong  rebukings  thrill  on  Freedom’s 
tongue  — 

No  partial  justice  hold  the  unequal  scale  — 

No  pride  of  caste  a brother’s  rights  assail  — 

No  tyrant’s  mandates  echo  from  this  wall, 

Holy  to  Freedom  and  the  Rights  of  All ! 

But  a fair  field,  where  mind  may  close  with  mind, 
Free  as  the  sunshine  and  the  chainless  wind ; 
Where  the  high  trust  is  fixed  on  Truth  alone, 
And  bonds  and  fetters  from  the  soul  are  thrown  ; 
Where  wealth,  and  rank,  and  wordly  pomp,  and 
might, 

Yield  to  the  presence  of  the  True  and  Right. 


ADDRESS . 


203 


And  fitting  is  it  that  this  Hall  should  stand 
Where  Pennsylvania’s  Founder  led  his  band, 
From  thy  blue  waters,  Delaware  ! — to  press 
The  virgin  verdure  of  the  wilderness. 

Here,  where  all  Europe  with  amazement  saw 
The  soul’s  high  freedom  trammelled  by  no  law ; 
Here,  where  the  first  and  warlike  forest-men 
Gathered  in  peace,  around  the  home  of  Penn, 
Awed  by  the  weapons  Love  alone  had  given, 
Drawn  from  the  holy  armory  of  Heaven ; 

Where  Nature’s  voice  against  the  bondman’s 
wrong 

First  found  an  earnest  and  indignant  tongue ; 
Where  Lay’s  bold  message  to  the  proud  was 
borne, 

And  Keith’s  rebuke,  and  Franklin’s  manly 
"scorn  — 

Fitting  it  is  that  here,  where  Freedom  first 
From  her  fair  feet  shook  off  the  Old  World’s 
dust, 

Spread  her  white  pinions  to  our  Western  blast, 
And  her  free  tresses  to  our  sunshine  cast, 

One  Hall  should  rise  redeemed  from  Slavery’s 
ban  — 

One  Temple  sacred  to  the  Rights  of  Man! 

Oh  ! if  the  spirits  of  the  parted  come, 

Visiting  angels,  to  their  olden  home ; 

If  the  dead  fathers  of  the  land  look  forth 


204 


ADDRESS. 


From  their  far  dwellings,  to  the  things  of  earth  — 
Is  it  a dream,  that  with  their  eyes  of  love. 

They  gaze  now  on  us  from  the  bowers  above  ? 
Lay’s  ardent  soul  — and  Benezet  the  mild, 
Steadfast  in  faith,  yet  gentle  as  a child  — 
Meek-hearted  Woolman, — and  that  brother- 
band, 

The  sorrowing  exiles  from  their 4 ‘ Fatherland,” 
Leaving  their  homes  in  Krieshiem’s  bowers  of 
vine, 

And  the  blue  beauty  of  their  glorious  Rhine, 

To  seek  amidst  our  solemn  depths  of  wood 
Freedom  from  man  and  holy  peace  with  God ; 
Who  first  of  all  their  testimonial  gave 
Against  the  oppressor,  — • for  the  outcast  slave,  — 
Is  it  a dream  that  such  as  these  look  down, 

And  with  their  blessing  our  rejoicings  crown? 

Let  us  rejoice,  that,  while  the  pulpit’s  door 
Is  barred  against  the  pleaders  for  the  poor ; 
While  the  church,  wranglingupon  points  of  faith, 
Forgets  her  bondmen  suffering  unto  death ; 
While  crafty  traffic  and  the  lust  of  gain 
Unite  to  forge  oppression’s  triple  chain, 

One  door  is  open,  and  one  Temple  free  — 

As  a resting  place  for  hunted  Liberty  ! 

Where  men  may  speak,  unshackled  and  unawed, 
High  words  of  truth,  for  Freedom  and  for  God. 


ADDRESS. 


205 


And  when  that  truth  its  perfect  work  hath  done, 
And  rich  with  blessings  o'er  our  land  hath  gone  ; 
When  not  a slave  beneath  his  yoke  shall  pine, 
From  broad  Potomac  to  the  far  Sabine ; 

When  unto  angel-lips  at  last  is  given 
The  silver  trump  of  Jubilee  to  Heaven  ; 

And  from  Virginia’s  plains  — Kentucky’s  shades, 
And  through  the  dim  Floridian  everglades, 
Rises,  to  meet  that  angel-trumpet’s  sound, 

The  voice  of  millions  from  their  chains  un- 
bound — 

Then,  though  this  Hall  be  crumbling  in  decay, 
Its  strong  walls  blending  with  the  common  clay, 
Yet,  round  the  ruins  of  its  strength  shall  stand 
The  best  and  noblest  of  a ransomed  land  — 
Pilgrims,  like  those  who  throng  around  the 
shrine 

Of  Mecca,  or  of  holy  Palestine  ! — 

A prouder  glory  shall  that  ruin  own 

Than  that  which  lingers  round  the  Parthenon. 

Here  shall  the  child  of  after  years  be  taught 
The  work  of  Freedom  which  his  fathers 
wrought  — - 

Told  of  the  trials  of  the  present  hour, 

Our  weary  strife  with  prejudice  and  power,  — 
How  the  high  errand  quickened  woman’s  soul, 
And  touched  her  lip  as  with  a living  coal  — 

How  Freedom’s  martyrs  kept  their  lofty  faith, 


2 o6 


THE  MORAL  WARFARE. 


True  and  unwavering,  unto  bonds  and  death. 
The  pencil’s  art  shall  sketch  the  ruined  Hall, 
The  Muses’  garland  crown  its  aged  wall, 

And  History’s  pen  for  after  times  record 
Its  consecration  unto  Freedom’s  God  ! 


THE  MORAL  WARFARE. 

When  Freedom,  on  her  natal  day, 

Within  her  war-rocked  cradle  lay, 

An  iron  race  around  her  stood, 

Baptized  her  infant  brow  in  blood, 

And,  through  the  storm  which  round  her  sweptj 
Their  constant  ward  and  watching  kept. 

Then,  where  our  quiet  herds  repose, 

The  roar  of  baleful  battle  rose, 

And  brethren  of  a common  tongue 
To  mortal  strife  as  tigers  sprung, 

And  every  gift  on  Freedom’s  shrine 
Was  man  for  beast,  and  blood  for  wine ! 

Our  fathers  to  their  graves  have  gone ; 

Their  strife  is  past  — their  triumph  won ; 

But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place  — 

A moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 


THE  RESPONSE . 


207 


So  let  it  be.  In  God’s  own  might 
We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight, 

And,  strong  in  Him  whose  cause  is  ours 
In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 

We  grasp  the  weapons  He  has  given, — 

The  Light,  the  Truth,  and  Love  of  Heaven  ! 


THE  RESPONSE.63 

No  “ countenance  ” of  his,  forsooth  ! 

Who^ asked  it  at  his  vassal  hands  ? 

Who  looked  for  homage  done  to  Truth, 

By  party’s  vile  and  hateful  bands  ? 

Who  dreamed  that  one  by  them  possessed, 
Would  lay  for  her  his  spear  in  rest? 

His  “ countenance!”  well,  let  it  light 
The  human  robber  to  his  spoil ! — 

Let  those  who  track  the  bondman’s  flight, 

Like  bloodhounds  o’er  our  once  free  soil, 

Bask  in  its  sunshine  while  they  may, 

And  howl  its  praises  on  their  way ; 

We  ask  no  boon  : our  rights  we  claim  — 

Free  press  and  thought  — free  tongue  and 
pen  — 


208 


THE  RESPONSE. 


The  right  to  speak  in  Freedom’s  name, 

As  Pennsylvanians' and  as  men; 

To  do,  by  Lynch  law  unforbid, 

What  our  own  Rush  and  Franklin  did. 

Ay,  there  we  stand,  with  planted  feet, 

Steadfast,  where  those  old  worthies  stood  : — 
Upon  us  let  the  tempest  beat, 

Around  us  swell  and  surge  the  flood  : 

We  fail  or  triumph  on  that  spot 
God  helping  us,  we  falter  not. 

“ A breach  of  plighted  faith  ? ” for  shame  ! — 
Who  voted  for  that  “ breach  ”?  Who  gave 
In  the  state  councils,  vote  and  name 
For  freedom  for  the  District  slave  ? 

Consistent  patriot ! go,  forswear. 

Blot  out,  “expunge  ” the  record  there!64 

Go,  eat  thy  words.  Shall  H C 

Turn  round  — a moral  harlequin  ? 

And  arch  V B wipe  away 

The  stains  of  his  Missouri  sin  ? 

And  shall  that  one  unlucky  vote 
Stick,  burr-like,  in  thy  honest  throat? 

No  — do  thy  part  in  “ putting  down  ” 65 
The  friends  of  Freedom  : — summon  out 
The  parson  in  his  saintly  gown, 


THE  RESPONSE. 


209 


To  curse  the  outlawed  roundabout, 

In  concert  with  the  Belial  brood  — 

The  Balaam  of  “ the  brotherhood!” 

Quench,  every  free  discussion  light  — 

Clap  on  the  legislative  snuffers, 

And  calk  with  “ resolutions”  tight 
The  ghastly  rents  the  Union  suffers  ! 

Let  church  and  state  brand  Abolition 
As  heresy  and  rank  sedition. 

Choke  down,  at  once,  each  breathing  thing. 
That  whispers  of  the  Rights  of  Man  : — 
Gag  the  free  girl  who  dares  to  sing 
Of  freedom  o’er  her  dairy  pan  : — 

Dog  the  old  farmer’s  steps  about, 

And  hunt  his  cherished  treason  out. 

Go,  hunt  sedition.  — Search  for  that 
In  every  pedler’s  cart  of  rags  ; 

Pry  into  every  Quaker’s  hat, 

And  Doctor  Fussell’s  saddle  bags! 

Lest  treason  wrap,  with  all  its  ills, 

Around  his  powders  and  his  pills. 

Where  Chester’s  oak  and  walnut  shades 
With  slavery-laden  breezes  stir, 

And  on  the  hills,  and  in  the  glades 
Of  Bucks  and  honest  Lancaster, 


210 


THE  RESPONSE . 


Are  heads  which  think  and  hearts  which  feel 
Flints  to  the  Abolition  steel ! 

Ho  ! send  ye  down  a corporal’s  guard 
With  flow  of  flag  and  beat  of  drum  — 
Storm  Lindley  Coates’s  poultry  yard, 
Beleaguer  Thomas  Whitson’s  home  ! 
Beat  up  the  Quaker  quarters  — show 
Your  valor  to  an  unarmed  foe  ! 

Do  more.  Fill  up  your  loathsome  jails 
With  faithful  men  and  women — set 
The  scaffold  up  in  these  green  vales, 

And  let  their  verdant  turf  be  wet 
With  blood  of  unresisting  men  — 

Ay,  do  all  this,  and  more,  — what  then  ? 

Think  ye,  one  heart  of  man  or  child 
Will  falter  from  its  lofty  faith, 

At  the  mob’s  tumult,  fierce  and  wild  — 

The  prison  cell  — the  shameful  death? 

No  ! — nursed  in  storm  and  trial  long, 

The  weakest  of  our  band  is  strong  ! 

Oh ! while  before  us  visions  come 
Of  slave  ships  on  Virginia’s  coast  — 

Of  mothers  in  their  childless  home, 

Like  Rachel,  sorrowing  o’er  the  lost  — 

The  slave-gang  scourged  upon  its  way  — 
The  blood-hound  and  his  human  prey  — 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION.  211 


We  cannot  falter ! Did  we  so, 

The  stones  beneath  would  murmur  out, 
And  all  the  winds  that  round  us  blow 
Would  whisper  of  our  shame  about. 

No  ! let' the  tempest  rock  the  land, 

Our  faith  shall  live  — our  truth  shall  stand. 

True  as  the  Vaudois  hemmed  around 
With  Papal  fire  and  Roman  steel  — 

Firm  as  the  Christian  heroine  bound 
Upon  Domitian’s  torturing  wheel, 

We  ’bate  no  breath  — we  curb  no  thought  — 
Come  what  may  come,  we  falter  not  ! 


THE  WORLD’S  CONVENTION 

OF  THE  FRIENDS  OF  EMANCIPATION,  HELD  IN 
LONDON  IN  1840. 

1839. 

Yes,  let  them  gather  ! — Summon  forth 
The  pledged  philanthropy  of  Earth, 

From  every  land,  whose  hills  have  heard 
The  bugle  blast  of  Freedom  waking; 

Or  shrieking  of  her  symbol-bird 
From  out  his  cloudy  eyrie  breaking; 


212  THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION. 


Where  Justice  hath  one  worshipper, 

Or  truth  one  altar  built  to  her ; 

Where’er  a human  eye  is  weeping 

O’er  wrongs  which  Earth’s  sad  children 
know  — 

Where’er  a single  heart  is  keeping 
Its  prayerful  watch  with  human  woe  ; 

Thence  let  them  come,  and  greet  each  other, 
And  know  in  each,  a friend  and  brother! 

Yes,  let  them  come  ! from  each  green  vale 
Where  England’s  old  baronial  halls 
Still  bear  upon  their  storied  walls 
The  grim  crusader’s  rusted  mail. 

Battered  by  Paynim  spear  and  brand 
On  Malta’s  rock  or  Syria’s  sand ! 

And  mouldering  pennon-staves  once  set 
Within  the  soil  of  Palestine, 

By  Jordan  and  Gennesaret ; 

Or,  borne  with  England’s  battle  line, 

O’er  Acre’s  shattered  turrets  stooping, 

Or,  ’midst  the  camp  their  banners  drooping, 
With  dews  from  hallowed  Hermon  wet, 

A holier  summons  now  is  given 

Than  that  gray  hermit’s  voice  of  old, 

Which  unto  all  the  winds  of  heaven 
The  banners  of  the  Cross  unrolled ! 

Not  for  the  long  deserted  shrine,  — 

Not  for  the  dull  unconscious  sod, 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION.  213 


Which  tells  not  by  one  lingering  sign 
That  there  the  hope  of  Israel  trod  ; — 

But  for  that  truth,  for  which  alone 
In  pilgrim  eyes  are  sanctified 
The  garden  moss,  the  mountain  stone, 
Whereon  His  holy  sandals  pressed  — 

The  fountain  which  His  lip  hath  blessed  — 
Whate’er  hath  touched  His  garment’s  hem 
At  Bethany  or  Bethlehem, 

Or  Jordan’s  river  side. 

For  freedom,  in  the  name  of  Him 
Who  came  to  raise  Earth’s  drooping  poor, 
To  break  the  chain  from  every  limb, 

The  bolt  from  every  prison  door ! 

For  these,  o’er  all  the  earth  hath  passed 
An  ever-deepening  trumpet  blast, 

As  if  an  angel’s  breath  had  lent 
Its  vigor  to  the  instrument. 

And  Wales,  from  Snowdon’s  mountain  wall, 
Shall  startle  at  that  thrilling  call, 

As  if  she  heard  her  bards  again  ; 

And  Erin’s  “ harp  on  Tara’s  wall” 

Give  out  its  ancient  strain, 

Mirthful  and  sweet,  yet  sad  withal  — 

The  melody  which  Erin  loves, 

When  o’er  that  harp,  mid  bursts  of  gladness 
And  slogan  cries  and  lyke-wake  sadnessu 
The  hand  of  her  O’Connell  moves  : 


214  THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION. 


Scotland,  from  lake  and  tarn  and  rill, 

And  mountain  hold,  and  heathery  hill, 
Shall  catch  and  echo  back  the  note, 

As  if  she  heard  upon  her  air 
Once  more  her  Cameronian’s  prayer 
And  song  of  Freedom  float. 

And  cheering  echoes  shall  reply 
From  each  remote  dependency, 

Where  Britain’s  mighty  sway  is  known, 

In  tropic  sea  or  frozen  zone ; 

Where’er  her  sunset  flag  is  furling, 

Or  morning  gun-fire’s  smoke  is  curling ; 
From  Indian  Bengal’s  groves  of  palm 
And  rosy  fields  and  gales  of  balm, 

Where  Eastern  pomp  and  power  are  rolled 
Through  regal  Ava’s  gates  of  gold ; 

And  from  the  lakes  and  ancient  woods 
And  dim  Canadian  solitudes, 

Whence,  sternly  from  her  rocky  throne, 
Queen  of  the  North,  Quebec  looks  down  ; 
And  from  those  bright  and  ransomed  Isles 
Where  all  unwonted  Freedom  smiles, 

And  the  dark  laborer  still  retains 
The  scar  of  slavery’s  broken  chains  ! 

From  the  hoar  Alps,  which  sentinel 
The  gateways  of  the  land  of  Tell, 

Where  morning’s  keen  and  earliest  glance 
On  Jura’s  rocky  wall  is  thrown, 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION,  215 


And  from  the  olive  bowers  of  France 
And  vine  groves  garlanding  the  Rhone,  — 
“ Friends  of  the  Blacks,’1  as  true  and  tried 
As  those  who  stood  by  Oge’s  side  — 

Brissot  and  eloquent  Gregoire  — 

When  with  free  lip  and  heart  of  fire 
The  Haytien  told  his  country’s  wrong, 

Shall  gather  at  that  summons  strong,  — 
Broglie,  Passy,  and  him,  whose  song 
Breathed  over  Syria’s  holy  sod, 

And  in  the  paths  which  Jesus  trod, 

And  murmured  midst  the  hills  which  hem 
Cro\ynless  and  sad  Jerusalem, 

Hath  echoes  whereso’er  the  tone 
Of  Israel’s  prophet-lyre  is  known. 

Still  let  them  come  — from  Quito’s  walls, 
And  from  the  Orinoco’s  tide, 

From  Lima’s  Inca-haunted  halls, 

From  Santa  F6  and  Yucatan,  — 

Men  who  by  swart  Guerrero’s  side 
Proclaimed  the  deathless  rights  of  man, 
Broke  every  bond  and  fetter  off, 

And  hailed  in  every  sable  serf 
A free  and  brother  Mexican  ! 

Chiefs  who  across  the  Andes’  chain 

Have  followed  Freedom’s  flowing  pennon, 
And  seen  on  Junin’s  fearful  plain, 

Glare  o’er  the  broken  ranks  of  Spain, 


216  THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION, \ 


The  fire-burst  of  Bolivar’s  cannon  ! 

And  Hayti,  from  her  mountain  land, 

Shall  send  the  sons  of  those  who  hurled 
Defiance  from  her  blazing  strand  — 

The  war-gage  from  her  Petion’s  hand, 
Alone  against  a hostile  world. 

Nor  all  unmindful  thou,  the  while, 

Land  of  the  dark  and  mystic  Nile  ! — - 
Thy  Moslem  mercy  yet  may  shame 
All  tyrants  of  a Christian  name  — 

When  in  the  shade  of  Gizeh’s  pile, 

Or,  where  from  Abyssinian  hills 
Ei  Gerek’s  upper  fountain  fills, 

Or  where  from  Mountains  of  the  Moon 
El  Abiad  bears  his  watery  boon, 

Where’er  thy  lotus  blossoms  swim 

Within  their  ancient  hallowed  waters  — 
Where’er  is  heard  thy  prophet’s  hymn, 

Or  song  of  Nubia’s  sable  daughters, — 
The  curse  of  slavery  and  the  crime, 

Thy  bequest  from  remotest  time, 

At  thy  dark  Mehemet’s  decree 
F'or  evermore  shall  pass  from  thee  ; 

And  chains  forsake  each  captive’s  limb 
Of  all  those  tribes,  whose  hills  around 
Have  echoed  back  the  cymbal  sound 
And  victor  horn  of  Ibrahim. 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION.  2IJ 


And  thou  whose  glory  and  whose  crime 
To  earth’s  remotest  bound  and  clime, 

In  mingled  tones  of  awe  and  scorn, 

The  echoes  of  a world  have  borne, 

My  country ! glorious  at  thy  birth, 

A day-star  flashing  brightly  forth  — 

The  herald-sign  of  Freedom’s  dawn! 

Oh  ! who  could  dream  that  saw  thee  then, 

And  watched  thy  rising  from  afar, 

That  vapors  from  oppression’s  fen 

Would  cloud  the  upward  tending  star? 

Or,  that  earth’s  tyrant  powers,  which  heard, 
Awe-struck,  the  shout  which  hailed  thy  dawn- 
' ing, 

Would  rise  so  soon,  prince,  peer,  and  king, 

To  mock  thee  with  their  welcoming, 

Like  Hades  when  her  thrones  were  stirred 
To  greet  the  down-cast  Star  of  Morning! 

“ Aha  ! and  art  thou  fallen  thus? 

Art  thou  become  as  one  of  us  ? ” 

Land  of  my  fathers  ! — there  will  stand, 

Amidst  that  world-assembled  band, 

Those  owning  thy  maternal  claim 
Unweakened  by  thy  crime  and  shame,  — 

The  sad  reprovers  of  thy  wrong  — 

The  children  thou  hast  spurned  so  long. 

Still  with  affection’s  fondest  yearning 
To  their  unnatural  mother  turning. 


218  the  WORLD'S  CONVENTION. 


No  traitors  they  ! — but  tried  and  leal, 
Whose  own  is  but  thy  general  weal, 

Still  blending  with  the  patriot’s  zeal 
The  Christian’s  love  for  human  kind, 

To  caste  and  climate  unconfined. 

A holy  gathering  ! — peaceful  all  — 

No  threat  of  war  — no  savage  call 
For  vengeance  on  an  erring  brother; 

But  in  their  stead  the  God-like  plan 
To  teach  the  brotherhood  of  man 
To  love  and  reverence  one  another, 

As  sharers  of  a common  blood  — 

The  children  of  a common  God  c.— 

Yet,  even  at  its  lightest  word, 

Shall  Slavery’s  darkest  depths  be  stirred : 
Spain  watching  from  her  Moro’s  keep 
Her  slave-ships  traversing  the  deep, 

And  Rio,  in  her  strength  and  pride, 
Lifting,  along  her  mountain  side, 

Her  snowy  battlements  and  towers  — 

Her  lemon  groves  and  tropic  bowers, 
With  bitter  hate  and  sullen  fear 
Its  freedom-giving  voice  shall  hear ; 

And  where  my  country’s  flag  is  flowing, 
On  breezes  from  Mount  Vernon  blowing 
Above  the  Nation’s  council  halls, 
Where  Freedom’s  praise  is  loud  and  long^ 
While,  close  beneath  the  outward  walli 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION.  219 

The  driver  plies  his  reeking  thong  — 

The  hammer  of  the  man-thief  falls, 

O’er  hypocritic  cheek  and  brow 
The  crimson  flush  of  shame  shall  glow : 

And  all  who  for  their  native  land 
Are  pledging  life  and  heart  and  hand  — 

Worn  watchers  o’er  her  changing  weal, 

Who  for  her  tarnished  honor  feel  — 

Through  cottage-door  and  council-hall 
Shall  thunder  an  awakening  call.* 

The  pen  along  its  page  shall  burn 
With  all  intolerable  scorn  — 

And  eloquent  rebuke  shall  go 

On  all  the  winds  that  Southward  blow ; 

From  priestly  lips,  now  sealed  and  dumb, 
Warning  and  dread  appeal  shall  come, 

Like  those  which  Israel  heard  from  him, 

The  Prophet  of  the  Cherubim  — 

Or  those  which  sad  Esaias  hurled 
Against  a sin-accursed  world  ! 

Its  wizard-leaves  the  Press  shall  fling 
Unceasing  from  its  iron  wing, 

With  characters  inscribed  thereon, 

As  fearful  in  the  despot’s  hall 
As  to  the  pomp  of  Babylon 

The  fire-sign  on  the  palace  wall ! 

And,  from  her  dark  iniquities, 

Methinks  I see  my  country  rise : 

Not  challenging  the  nations  round 


220 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


To  note  her  tardy  justice  done  — 

Her  captives  from  their  chains  unbound, 
Her  prisons  opening  to  the  sun  ; — 

But  tearfully  her  arms  extending 
Over  the  poor  and  unoffending ; 

Her  regal  emblem  now  no  longer 
A bird  of  prey,  with  talons  reeking, 

Above  the  dying  captive  shrieking, 

But,  spreading  out  her  ample  wing  — 

A broad,  impartial  covering  — 

The  weaker  sheltered  by  the  stronger  ! — 
Oh  ! then  to  Faith’s  anointed  eyes 
The  promised  token  shall  be  given ; 

And  on  a nation’s  sacrifice, 

Atoning  for  the  sin  of  years, 

And  wet  with  penitential  tears  — 

The  fire  shall  fall  from  Heaven  ! 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

1845- 

God  bless  New  Hampshire  ! — from  her  granite 
peaks 

Once  more  the  voice  of  Stark  and  Langdon 
speaks. 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


221 


The  long  bound  vassal  of  the  exulting  South 
For  very  shame  her  self-forged  chain  has 
broken  — 

Torn  the  black  seal  of  slavery  from  her  mouth, 
And  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  old  time  spoken! 
Oh,  all  undreamed  of,  all  unhoped  for  changes  ! — 
The  tyrant’s  ally  proves  his  sternest  foe ; 

To  all  his  biddings,  from  her  mountain  ranges. 
New  Hampshire  thunders  an  indignant  No  ! 
Who  is  it  now  despairs?  Oh,  faint  of  heart, 
Look  upward  to  those  Northern  mountains 
cold, 

Flouted  by  Freedom’s  victor-flag  unrolled, 
And  gather  strength  to  bear  a manlier  part ! 

All  is  not  lost.  The  angel  of  God’s  blessing 
Encamps  with  Freedom  on  the  field  of  fight ; 
Still  to  her  banner,  day  by  day,  are  pressing, 
Unlooked  for  allies,  striking  for  the  right ! 
Courage,  then,  Northern  hearts  ! — Be  firm,  be 
true : 

What  one  brave  State  hath  done,  can  ye  not 
also  do? 


222 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 


THE  NEW  YEAR: 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  PATRONS  OF  THE 
PENNSYLVANIA  FREEMAN. 

1839. 

The  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore  — 
The  echo  fading  from  the  chime — 

Again  the  shadow  moveth  o’er 
The  dial-plate  of  time  ! 

Oh,  seer-seen  Angel ! waiting  now 
With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 

Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow 
That  time  shall  be  no  more ! — 

Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 
The  semblance  of  a smile  has  passed 

The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 
Time’s  fearfullest  and  last. 

Oh  ! in  that  dying  year  hath  been 
The  sum  of  all  since  time  began  — 

The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain, 
Of  Nature  and  of  Man. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 


223; 


Spring,  with  her  change  of  sun  and  shower, 
And  streams  released  from  winter’s  chain, 
And  bursting  bud,  and  opening  flower, 

And  greenly  growing  grain  ; 

And  Summer’s  shade,  and  sunshine  warm, 
And  rainbows  o’er  her  hill-tops  bowed. 
And  voices  in  her  rising  storm  — 

God  speaking  from  his  cloud  ! — 

And  Autumn’s  fruits  and  clustering  sheaves. 
And  soft,  warm  days  of  golden  light, 

The  glory  of  her  forest  leaves, 

And  harvest-moon  at  night ; 

And  winter  with  her  leafless  grove, 

And  prisoned  stream,  and  drifting  snow. 
The  brilliance  of  her  heaven  above 
And  of  her  earth  below  : — 

And  man  — in  whom  an  angel’s  mind 
With  earth’s  low  instincts  finds  abode  — 
The  highest  of  the  links  which  bind 
Brute  nature  to  her  God ; 

His  infant  eye  hath  seen  the  light, 

His  childhood’s  merriest  laughter  rung, 
And  active  sports  to  manlier  might 
The  nerves  of  boyhood  strung  ! 


224 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 


And  quiet  love,  and  passion’s  fires, 

Have  soothed  or  burned  in  manhood’s  breast 

And  lofty  aims  and  low  desires 
By  turns  disturbed  his  rest. 

The  wailing  of  the  newly-born 

Has  mingled  with  the  funeral  knell ; 

And  o’er  the  dying’s  ear  has  gone 
The  merry  marriage-bell. 

And  Wealth  has  filled  his  halls  with  mirth, 
While  Want,  in  many  a humble  shed, 

Toiled,  shivering  by  her  cheerless  hearth, 

The  live-long  night  for  bread. 

And  worse  than  all  — the  human  slave  — 

The  sport  of  lust,  and  pride,  and  scorn ! 

Plucked  off  the  crown  his  Maker  gave  — 

His  regal  manhood  gone ! 

Oh  ! still  my  country  ! o’er  thy  plains, 
Blackened  with  slavery’s  blight  and  ban, 

That  human  chattel  drags  his  chains  — 

An  uncreated  man ! 

And  still,  where’er  to  sun  and  breeze, 

My  country,  is  thy  flag  unrolled, 

With  scorn,  the  gazing  stranger  sees 
A stain  on  every  fold. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 


225 


Oh,  tear  the  gorgeous  emblem  down! 

It  gathers  scorn  from  every  eye, 

And  despots  smile,  and  good  men  frown, 
Whene’er  it  passes  by. 

Shame  ! shame  ! its  starry  splendors  glow 
Above  the  slaver’s  loathsome  jail  — 

Its  folds  are  ruffling  even  now 
His  crimson  flag  of  sale. 

Still  round  our  country’s  proudest  hall 
The  trade  in  human  flesh  is  driven, 

And  at  each  careless  hammer-fall 
A human  heart  is  riven. 

And  this,  too,  sanctioned  by,  the  men, 

Vested  with  power  to  shield  the  right, 

And  throw  each  vile  and  robber  den 
Wide  open  to  the  light. 

Yet  shame  upon  them  ! — there  they  sit, 

Men  of  the  North,  subdued  and  still ; 

Meek,  pliant  poltroons,  only  fit 
To  work  a master’s  will. 

Sold  — bargained  off  for  Southern  votes  — 

A passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 

Just  braying  through  their  purchased  throats 
Whate’er  their  owner  rules. 


226 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 


And  he  66  — the  basest  of  the  base  — 
The  vilest  of  the  vile  — whose  name, 
Embalmed  in  infinite  disgrace, 

Is  deathless  in  its  shame ! — 

A tool — to  bolt  the  people’s  door 

Against  the  people  clamoring  there,  — 
An  ass  — to  trample  on  their  floor 
A people’s  right  of  prayer  ! 

Nailed  to  his  self-made  gibbet  fast, 
Self-pilloried  to  the  public  view  — 

A mark  for  every  passing  blast 
Of  scorn  to  whistle  through ; 

There  let  him  hang,  and  hear  the  boast 
Of  Southrons  o’er  their  pliant  tool  — 
A St.  Stylites  on  his  post, 

“ Sacred  to  ridicule  !” 

Look  we  at  home  ! — our  noble  hall, 

To  Freedom’s  holy  purpose  given, 
Now  rears  its  black  and  ruined  wall, 
Beneath  the  wintry  heaven  — 

Telling  the  story  of  its  doom  — 

The  fiendish  mob  — the  prostrate  law 
The  fiery  jet  through  midnight’s  gloom, 
Our  gazing  thousands  saw. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 


227 


Look  to  our  State  — the  poor  man’s  right 
Torn  from  him  : — and  the  sons  of  those 
Whose  blood  in  Freedom’s  sternest  fight 
Sprinkled  the  Jersey  snows, 

Outlawed  within  the  land  of  Penn, 

That  Slavery’s  guilty  fears  might  cease, 
And  those  whom  God  created  men, 

Toil  on  as  brutes  in  peace. 

Yet  o’er  the  blackness  of  the  storm, 

A bow  of  promise  bends  on  high, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine,  soft  and  warm, 
Bredk  through  our  clouded  sky. 

East,  West,  and  North,  the  shout  is  heard, 

Of  freemen  rising  for  the  right : 

Each  valley  hath  its  rallying  word  — 

Each  hill  its  signal  light. 

O’er  Massachusetts’  rocks  of  gray, 

The  strengthening  light  of  freedom  shines, 
Rhode  Island’s  Narragansett  Bay  — 

And  Vermont’s  snow-hung  pines  ! 

From  Hudson’s  frowning  palisades 
To  Alleghany’s  laurelled  crest, 

O’er  lakes  and  prairies,  streams  and  glades, 

It  shines  upon  the  West. 


228 


THE  NE'W  YEAR. 


Speed  on  the  -light  to  those  who  dwell 
In  Slavery’s  land  of  woe  and  sin, 

And  through  the  blackness  of  that  hell, 
Let  Heaven’s  own  light  break  in. 

So  shall  the  Southern  conscience  quake, 
Before  that  light  poured  full  and  strong, 
So  shall  the  Southern  heart  awake 
To  all  the  bondman’s  wrong. 

And  from  that  rich  and  sunny  land 
The  song  of  grateful  millions  rise, 

Like  that  of  Israel’s  ransomed  band 
Beneath  Arabia’s  skies  : 

And  all  who  now  are  bound  beneath 
Our  banner’s  shade  — our  eagle’s  wing. 
From  Slavery’s  night  of  moral  death 
To  light  and  life  shall  spring. 

Broken  the  bondman’s  chain  — and  gone 
The  master’s  guilt,  and  hate,  and  fear, 
And  unto  both  alike  shall  dawn 
A New  and  Happy  Year. 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA.  229 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA.67 

The  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon 
its  Southern  way, 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massachusetts 
Bay : — 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle 
bugle’s  peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor  clang 
of  horsemen’s  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our 
highways  go  — 

Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies  the 
snow ; 

And  to  the  land  breeze  of  our  ports,  upon  their 
errands  far, 

A thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but  none 
are  spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia ! thy  stormy 
words  and  high 

Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which 
melt  along  our  sky : 

Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its 
honest  labor  here  — 

No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his 
axe  in  fear. 


230  MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA . 


Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along 
St.  George’s  bank  — 

Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white 
and  dank ; 

Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding  mist, 
stout  are  the  hearts  which  man 

The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea- 
boats  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on 
their  icy  forms, 

Bent  grimly  o’er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling 
with  the  storms  ; 

Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as 
the  waves  they  roam, 

They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver’s  threat  against 
their  rocky  home. 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion?  Hath  she  for- 
got the  day 

When  o’er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the 
Briton’s  steel  array? 

How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massa- 
chusetts men 

Encountered  Tarleton’s  charge  of  fire,  and  stout 
Cornwallis,  then? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the 
call 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA.  231 


Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from 
Faneuil  Hall? 

When,  echoing  back  her  Henry’s  cry,  came 
pulsing  on  each  breath 

Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of 
‘ 4 Liberty  or  Death  ! ” 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion?  If  now  her  sons 
have  proved 

False  to  their  fathers’  memory  — false  to  the 
faith  they  loved ; 

If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great  charter 
spurn, 

Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth  and  duty 
turn? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery’s 
hateful  hell  — 

Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  blood- 
hound’s yell  — 

We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our  fathers’ 
graves, 

From  Freedom’s  holy  altar-horns  to  tear  your 
wretched  slaves ! 

Thank  God  ! not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massachusetts 
bow ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even 
now ; 


232  MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA . 


Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves 
slow,  and  calm,  and  cool, 

She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a sister’s 
slave  and  tool ! 

All  that  a sister  State  should  do,  all  that  a free 
State  may, 

Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our 
early  day ; 

But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must 
stagger  with  alone, 

And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves 
have  sown  ! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and 
burden  God’s  free  air 

With  woman’s  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and 
manhood’s  wild  despair ; 

Cling  closer  to  the  “ cleaving  curse  ” that  writes 
upon  your  plains 

The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a land 
of  chains. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers 
of  old, 

By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  human 
flesh  is  sold  — 

Gloat  o’er  the  new-born  child,  and  count  his 
market  value,  when 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA . 233 


The  maddened  mother’s  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce 
the  slaver’s  den  ! 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,  sink  the  Vir- 
ginian name ; 

Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers’  graves  with  rank- 
est weeds  of  shame ; 

Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God’s  fair  uni- 
verse — 

We  wash  our  hands  forever  of  your  sin,  and 
shame,  and  curse. 

A voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Free- 
dom’s shrine  hath  been, 

Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berk- 
shire’s mountain  men : 

The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  linger- 
ing still 

In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept 
hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting 
for  his  prey 

Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker’s  shaft  of 

g^y, 

How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the  father’s 
warning  spoke ; 

How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the  Pil- 
grim city  broke ! 


234  MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA. 


A hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted  up 
on  high,  — 

A hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their  loud 
reply ; 

Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  start- 
ling summons  rang, 

And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her 
young  mechanics  sprang ! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex  — of  thou- 
sands as  of  one  — 

The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lexing- 
ton— 

From  Norfolk’s  ancient  villages ; from  Plym- 
outh’s rocky  bound 

To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean 
close  her  round  ; — 

From  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where  through 
the  calm  repose 

Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the  gentle 
Nashua  flows, 

To  where  Wachuset’s  wintry  blasts  the  moun- 
tain larches  stir, 

Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of  “ God 
save  Latimer ! ” 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt 
sea  spray  — 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA.  235 

And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Nar- 
ragansett  Bay ! 

Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt 
the  thrill, 

And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire’s  woodmen  swept 
down  from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts  ! Of  her  free  sons 
and  daughters  — 

Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud  — the  sound  of 
many  waters  ! 

Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant 
power  shall  stand  ? 

No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State  / No  slave  upon  her 
land! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians  ! In  calmness  we 
have  borne, 

In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and 
your  scorn ; 

You’ve  spurned  our  kindest  counsels  — you’ve 
hunted  for  our  lives  — 

And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes  your 
manacles  and  gyves  ! 

We  wage  no  war  — we  lift  no  arm  — we  fling  no 
torch  within 

The.  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath 
your  soil  of  sin  ; 


236  THE  RELIC . 

We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle, 
while  ye  can, 

With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  God- 
like soul  of  man ! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow  which 
we  have  given 

For  freedom  and  humanity,  is  registered  in 
Heaven ; 

No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders  — no  pirate  on  our 
strand  ! 

No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State — no  slave  upon  our 
land  l 


THE  RELIC.68 

Token  of  friendship  true  and  tried, 
From  one  whose  fiery  heart  of  youth 
With  mine  has  beaten,  side  by  side, 
For  Liberty  and  Truth; 

With  honest  pride  the  gift  I take, 

And  prize  it  for  the  giver’s  sake. 

But  not  alone  because  it  tells 

Of  generous  hand  and  heart  sincere ; 
Around  that  gift  of  friendship  dwells 
A memory  doubly  dear  — 


THE  RELIC. 


237 


Earth’s  noblest  aim  — man’s  holiest  thought, 
With  that  memorial  frail  inwrought ! 

Pure  thoughts  and  sweet,  like  flowers  unfold. 
And  precious  memories  round  it  cling, 
Even  as  the  Prophet’s  rod  of  old 
In  beauty  blossoming : 

And  buds  of  feeling  pure  and  good 
Spring  from  its  cold  unconscious  wood. 

Relic  of  Freedom’s  shrine  ! — a brand 
Plucked  from  its  burning ! — let  it  be 
Dear  as  a jewel  from  the  hand 
Of  a lost  friend  to  me  ! — 

Flower  of  a perished  garland  left, 

Of  life  and  beauty  unbereft ! 

Oh  ! if  the  young  enthusiast  bears, 

O’er  weary  waste  and  sea,  the  stone 
Which  crumbled  from  the  Forum’s  stairs, 

Or  round  the  Parthenon  ; 

Or  olive  bough  from  some  wild  tree 
Hung  over  old  Thermopylae  : 

If  leaflets  from  some  hero’s  tomb, 

Or  moss-wreath  torn  from  ruins  hoary,  — 
Or  faded  flowers  whose  sisters  bloom 
On  fields  renowned  in  story,  — 

Or  fragment  from  the  Alhambra’s  crest, 

Or  the  gray  rock  by  Druids  blessed  ; 


238 


THE  RELIC. 


Sad  Erin’s  shamrock  greenly  growing 
Where  Freedom  led  her  stalwart  kern, 

Or  Scotia’s  “ rough  bur  thistle  ” blowing 
On  Bruce’s  Bannockburn  — 

Or  Runnymede’s  wild  English  rose, 

Or  lichen  plucked  from  Sempach’s  snows  ! — ■ 

If  it  be  true  that  things  like  these 

To  heart  and  eye  bright  visions  bring, 
Shall  not  far  holier  memories 

To  this  memorial  cling?  • 

Which  needs  no  mellowing  mist  of  time 
To  hide  the  crimson  stains  of  crime  ! 

Wreck  of  a temple,  unprofaned  — 

Of  courts  where  Peace  with  Freedom  trod, 
Lifting  on  high,  with  hands  unstained, 
Thanksgiving  unto  God ; 

Where  Mercy’s  voice  of  love  was  pleading 
For  human  hearts  in  bondage  bleeding ! — 

Where  midst  the  sound  of  rushing  feet 
And  curses  on  the  night  air  flung, 

That  pleading  voice  rose  calm  and  sweet 
From  woman’s  earnest  tongue ; 

And  Riot  turned  his  scowling  glance, 

Awed,  from  her  tranquil  countenance  ! 

That  temple  now  in  ruin  lies  ! 

The  fire-stain  on  its  shattered  wall, 


THE  RELIC. 


239 


And  open  to  the  changing  skies 
Its  black  and  roofless  hall, 

It  stands  before  a nation’s  sight, 

A grave-stone  over  buried  Right ! 

But  from  that  ruin,  as  of  old, 

The  fire-scorched  stones  themselves  are  crying, 
And  from  their  ashes  white  and  cold 
Its  timbers  are  replying ! 

A voice  which  slavery  cannot  kill 
Speaks  from  the  crumbling  arches  still ! 

And  even  this  relic  from  thy  shrine. 

Oh,  holy  Freedom ! — hath  to  me 
A potent  power,  a voice  and  sign 
To  testify  of  thee  ; 

And,  grasping  it,  methinks  I feel 
A deeper  faith,  a stronger  zeal. 

And  not  unlike  that  mystic  rod, 

Of  old  stretched  o’er  the  Egyptian  wave, 
Which  opened,  in  the  strength  of  God, 

A pathway  for  the  slave, 

It  yet  may  point  the  bondsman’s  way, 

And  turn  the  spoiler  from  his  prey. 


240  STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES.69 

1844. 

Ho ! thou  who  seekest  late  and  long 
A license  from  the  Holy  Book 
For  brutal  lust  and  hell’s  red  wrong, 

Man  of  the  pulpit,  look  ! — 

Lift  up  those  cold  and  atheist  eyes, 

This  ripe  fruit  of  thy  teaching  see  ; 

And  tell  us  how  to  Heaven  will  rise 
The  incense  of  this  sacrifice  — 

This  blossom  of  the  Gallows  Tree  ! — 

Search  out  for  Slavery’s  hour  of  need 
Some  fitting  text  of  sacred  writ ; 70 
Give  Heaven  the  credit  of  a deed 
Which  shames  the  nether  pit. 

Kneel,  smooth  blasphemer,  unto  Him 
Whose  truth  is  on  thy  lips  a lie, 

Ask  that  His  bright- winged  cherubim 
May  bend  around  that  scatfold  grim 
To  guard  and  bless  and  sanctify ! — 

Ho!  champion  of  the  people’s  cause  — 
Suspend  thy  loud  and  vain  rebuke 
Of  foreign  wrong  and  Old  World  laws, 

Man  of  the  Senate,  look  ! — 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES . 241 


Was  this  the  promise  of  the  free,  — 

The  great  hope  of  our  early  time,  — 

That  Slavery’s  poison  vine  should  be 
Upborne  by  Freedom’s  prayer-nursed  tree, 
O’erclustered  with  such  fruits  of  crime  ? — 

Send  out  the  summons,  east  and  west, 

And  south  and  north,  let  all  be  there, 
Where  he  who  pitied  the  oppressed 
Swings  out  in  sun  and  air. 

Let  not  a democratic  hand 

The  grisly  hangman’s  task  refuse ; 

There  let  each  loyal  patriot  stand 
Awaiting  Slavery’s  command 

To  twist  the  rope  and  draw  the  noose ! 

But  vain  is  irony  — unmeet 

Its  cold  rebuke  for  deeds  which  start 
In  fiery  and  indignant  beat 
The  pulses  of  the  heart. 

Leave  studied  wit,  and  guarded  phrase, 

And  all  that  kindled  heart  can  feel ; 

Speak  out  in  earnest  words  which  raise, 
Where’er  they  fall,  an  answering  blaze, 

Like  flints  which  strike  the  fire  from  steel. 

Still  let  a mousing  priesthood  ply 
Their  garbled  text  and  gloss  of  sin, 

And  make  the  lettered  scroll  deny 
Its  living  soul  within  ; 


242  STANZAS  TOT  THE  TIMES . 


Still  let  the  place-fed  titled  knave 
Plead  Robbery’s  right  with  purchased  lips, 
And  tell  us  that  our  fathers  gave 
For  Freedom’s  pedestal  a slave, 

For  frieze  and  moulding,  chains  and  whips  ! 

But  ye  who  own  that  higher  law 
Whose  tables  in  the  heart  are  set, 

Speak  out  in  words  of  power  and  awe 
That  God  is  living  yet ! 

Breathe  forth  once  more  those  tones  sublime 
Which  thrilled  the  burthened  prophet’s  lyi 
And  in  a dark  and  evil  time 
Smote  down  on  Israel’s  fast  of  crime 
And  gift  of  blood,  a rain  of  fire  ! 

Oh,  not  for  us  the  graceful  lay, 

To  whose  soft  measures  lightly  move 
The  Dryad  and  the  woodland  Fay, 

Overlooked  by  Mirth  and  Love  ; 

But  such  a stern  and  startling  strain 
As  Britain’s  hunted  bards  flung  down 
From  Snowdon,  to  the  conquered  plain, 
Where  harshly  clanked  the  Saxon  chain 
On  trampled  field  and  smoking  town. 

By  Liberty’s  dishonored  name, 

By  man’s  lost  hope,  and  failing  trust, 

By  words  and  deeds,  which  bow  with  shame 
Our  foreheads  to  the  dust,  — 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES . 


By  the  exulting  tyrant’s  sneer, 

Borne  to  us  from  the  Old  World’s  thrones 
And  by  their  grief,  who  pining  hear, 

In  sunless  mines  and  dungeons  drear, 

How  Freedom’s  land  her  faith  disowns  ; — 

Speak  out  in  acts ; the  time  for  words 
Has  passed,  and  deeds  alone  suffice  ; 

In  the  loud  clang  of  meeting  swords 
The  softer  music  dies  ! 

Act  — act,  in  God’s  name,  while  ye  may. 
Smite  from  the  church  her  leprous  limb* 
Throw  open  to  the  light  of  day 
The  bondman’s  cell,  and  break  away 
The  chains  the  State  has  bound  on  him. 

Ho  ! every  true  and  living  soul, 

To  Freedom’s  perilled  altar  bear 
The  freeman’s  and  the  Christian’s  whole,. 

Tongue,  pen,  and  vote,  and  prayer  ! 

.One  last  great  battle  for  the  Right,  — 

One  short,  sharp  struggle  to  be  free  ! — 
To  do  is  to  succeed — our  fight 
Is  waged  in  Heaven’s  approving  sight  — 
The  smile  of  God  is  Victory ! 


244 


THE  BRANDED  HAND. 


THE  BRANDED  HAND. 

1846. 

Welcome  home  again,  brave  seaman!71  with 
thy  thoughtful  brow  and  gray, 

And  the  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  earlier,  better 
day  — 

With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on  whose 
steady  nerve,  in  vain 

Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the  fiery 
shafts  of  pain  ! 

Is  the  tyrant’s  brand  upon  thee?  Did  the 
brutal  cravens  aim 

To  make  God’s  truth  thy  falsehood,  His  holiest 
work  thy  shame? 

When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  torture  the 
iron  was  withdrawn, 

How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled  fools  to 
scorn ! 

They  change  to  wrong  the  duty  which  God 
hath  written  out 

On  the  great  heart  of  humanity  too  legible  for 
doubt ! 


THE  BRANDED  HAND . 


245 


They , the  loathsome  and  moral  lepers,  blotched 
from  footsole  up  to  crown, 

Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto  honor 
and  renown  ! 

Why,  that  brand  is  highest  honor ! — than  its 
traces  never  yet 

Upon  old  armorial  hatchments  was  a prouder 
blazon  set ; 

And  thy  unborn  generations,  as  they  tread  our 
rocky  strand, 

Shall  tell  with  pride  the  story  of  their  father’s 
BRANDED  HAND  ! 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcomed,  bearing 
back  from  Syrian  wars 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances,  and  of  Paynim  scim- 
etars . 

The  pallor  of  the  prison  and  the  shackle’s  crim- 
son span, 

So  we  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest  friend 
of  God  and  man  ! 

He  suffered  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear  Redeem- 
er’s grave, 

Thou  for  His  living  presence  in  the  bound  and 
bleeding  slave ; 

He  for  a soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  angels 
trod, 


246  THE  BRANDED  HAND. 


Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  present  home 
of  God ! 

For,  while  the  jurist  sitting  with  the  slave-whip 
o’er  him  swung, 

From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the  lie  of 
slavery  wrung, 

And  the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each  God- 
deserted  shrine, 

Broke  the  bondman’s  heart  for  bread,  poured 
the  bondman’s  blood  for  wine  — 

While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a far-off 
Saviour  knelt, 

And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where  a 
present  Saviour  dwelt ; 

Thou  beheld’st  Him  in  the  task-field,  in  the 
prison  shadows  dim, 

And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was  mercy 
unto  Him  ! 

In  thy  lone  and  long  night  watches,  sky  above 
and  wave  below, 

Thou  did’st  learn  a higher  wisdom  than  the 
babbling  school-men  know ; 

God’s  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as  His 
angels  only  can, 

That  the  one,  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the 
cope  of  heaven  is  Man ! 


THE  BRANDED  HAND. 


247 


That  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls  of 
law  and  creed, 

In  the  depth  of  God’s  great  goodness  may  find 
mercy  in  his  need  ; 

But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  soul  with 
chain  and  rod, 

And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  awful  form  of 
God! 

Then  lift  that  manly  right  hand,  bold  plough- 
man of  the  wave ! 

Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  4 4 Salvation 
to  the  Slave  ! ” 

Hold  up  its  fire-wrought  language,  that  whoso 
reads  may  feel 

His  heart  swell  strong  within  him,  his  sinews 
change  to  steel. 

Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against  our 
Northern  air  — 

Ho  ! men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  love  of  God 
look  there  ! 

Take  it  henceforth  for  your  standard  — like  the 
Bruce’s  heart  of  yore, 

In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that  hand 
be  seen  before  ! 

And  the  tyrants  of  the  slave-land  shall  tremble 
at  that  sign, 


248  TEXAS . 

When  it  points  its  finger  Southward  along  the 
Puritan  line : 

Woe  to  the  State-gorged  leeches,  and  the 
Church’s  locust  band, 

When  they  look  from  Slavery’s  ramparts  on  the 
coming  of  that  hand  ! 


TEXAS. 

VOICE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Up  the  hill-side,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  • 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men  ! 

Like  a lion  growling  low  — 

Like  a night-storm  rising  slow  — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe  — 

It  is  coming  — it  is  nigh  ! 

Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by ; 
On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires ; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  ^ignal  fires. 


TEXAS. 


249 


From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak, 
Unto  Berkshire’s  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  flame-tongued  heralds  speak. 

O ! for  God  and  duty  stand, 

Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow  ! 

Freedom’s  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a free  and  fearless  race  — 

None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party  — perish  clan  ; 

Strike  together  while  ye  can, 

Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel’s  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a world  of  crime, 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time,  — 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both  : 

“ What  though  Issachar  be  strong ! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long  : 


TEXAS. 


Patience  with  her  cup  o’errun, 

With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

Make  our  Union-bond  a chain, 

Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom’s  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

Vainly  shall  your  sand- wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 

Shattered  over  heaven’s  blue  cope  ! 

Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 

Clouding  o’er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 

Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom ; 

Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 

For  her  plough,  and  forge  and  loom ; 

Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales  ; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart 
Break  the  Union’s  ipighty  heart ; 

Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will ; 

Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 


TEXAS . 


25* 


With  your  bondman’s  right  arm  bare, 
With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 

Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare  ! 

Onward  with  your  fell  design  ; 

Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line  : 

Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine : 

Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 

Shaken  by  a look  or  tread, 

Ye  shall  own  a guilty  dread. 

And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow, 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 

Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow  ; — 

And  when  vengeance  clouds  your  skies, 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 

As  the  lost  on  Paradise  ! 

We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 

Freedom’s  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom’s  strong  and  honest  hand, — 


TO  FANEUIL  HALL. 


Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 

And  the  Pilgrim’s  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers’  God  ! ” 

x 


TO  FANEUIL  HALL. 

1844. 

Men  ! — if  manhood  still  ye  claim, 

If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame, 
Freely,  strongly  still : — 

Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die : 

Shut  the  mill-gate  — leave  the  stall  — 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by 
Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 72 

Wrongs  which  freemen  never  brooked  — 
Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 
Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 
On  your  fathers’  way ; — 

These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 

Shaking  with  their  earthquake-call 
Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land  — 

Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars  — - 
From  your  mountain-ridges  cold, 


TO  FANEUIL  HALL. 


253 


Through  whose  pines  the  westering  stars 
Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 
Echoes  from  that  holy  wall : 

Once  again,  for  Freedom’s  sake 
Rock  your  fathers’  hall ! 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 
Every  cord  by  party  spun  ; 

Let  your  hearts  together  beat 
As  the  heart  of  one. 

Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade. 

Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 

Freedom  asks  your  common  aid  — 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 
Ring  from  thence  to  Southern  plains. 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 
Prison-bolts  and  chains  ! 

Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free  — 
Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 

Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be 
Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall! 

Have  they  wronged  us  ? Let  us  then 
Render  back  nor  threats  nor  prayers  ; 
Have  they  chained  our  free-born  men? 
Let  us  unchain  theirs  ! 


TO  MASSACHUSETTS. 


Up ! your  banner  leads  the  van, 
Blazoned  “ Liberty  for  all!  ” 
Finish  what  your  sires  began  — 
Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall! 


TO  MASSACHUSETTS. 

1844. 

WRITTEN  IX/RING  THE  PENDING  OF  m* 
TEXAS  QUESTION. 

/ 

What  though  around  thee  blazes 
No  fiery  rallying  sign? 

From  all  thy  own  high  places, 

Give  heaven  the  light  of  thine ! 

What  though  unthrilled,  unmoving. 
The  statesman  stands  apart, 

And  comes  no  warm  approving 
From  Mammon’s  crowded  mart  ? 

I 

p 

Still  let  the  land  be  shaken 
By  a summons  of  thine  own ! 

By  all  save  truth  forsaken, 

Why,  stand  with  that  alone ! 

Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal ! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope; 


TO  MASSACHUSETTS . 


255 


And  ever  in  the  sequel  • 

God  holds  the  right  side  up ! 

But  when,  with  thine  uniting, 

Come  voices  long  and  loud, 

And  far-off  hills  are  writing 
Thy  fire-words  on  the  cloud  : 

When  from  Penobscot’s  fountains 
A deep  response  is  heard, 

And  across  the  Western  mountains 
Rolls  back  thy  rallying  word  ; 1 

Shall  thy  line  of  battle  falter, 

With  its  allies  just  in  view  ? 

Oh,  by  hearth  and  holy  altar, 

My  Father-land, ‘be  true  ! 

Fling  abroad  thy  scrolls  of  Freedom! 
Speed  them  onward  far  and  fast ! 

Over  hill  and  valley  speed  them, 

Like  the  Sybil’s  on  the  blast ! 

Lo ! the  Empire  State  is  shaking 
The  shackles  from  her  hand ; 

With  the  rugged  North  is  waking 
The  level  sunset  land ! 

On  they  come  — the  free  battalions ! 
East  and  West  and  North  they  come, 

And  the  heart-beat  of  the  millions 
Is  the  beat  of  Freedom’s  drum. 


i$6  THE  PINE  TREE. 

“To  the  tyrant's  plot  no  favor! 

No  heed  to  place-fed  knaves ! 
Bar  and  bolt  the  door  forever 
Against  the  land  of  Slaves  ! ” 
Hear  it,  mother  Earth,  and  hear  it, 
The  Heavens  above  us  spread ! 
The  land  is  roused  — its  spirit 
Was  sleeping,  but  not  dead  ! 


THE  PINE  TREE. 

1846. 

Lift  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State’s 
rusted  shield, 

Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine  Tree73  on  our 
banner’s  tattered  field, 

Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles 
round  the  board, 

Ariswering  England’s  royal  missive  with  a firm, 
“Thus  saith  the  Lord!” 

Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom  ! — set  the  bat- 
tle in  array  ! — 

What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons 
must  do  to-day. 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs  — cease  your 
paltry  pedler  cries  — 


THE  PINE  TREE. 


257 


Shall  the  good  State  sink  her  honor  that  your 
gambling  stocks  may  rise  ? 

Would  ye  barter  man  for  cotton?  — That  your 
gains  may  be  the  same  ? 

Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our  chil- 
dren through  the  flame  ? 

Is  the  dollar  only  real? — God  and  truth  and 
right  a dream? 

Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must  our 
manhood  kick  the  beam? 

Oh,  my  God  ! — for  that  free  spirit,  which  of  old 
in  Boston  town 

Smote  the  Province  House  with  terror,  struck 
the  crest  of  Andros  down  ! — 

For  another  strong-voiced  Adams  in  the  city’s 
streets  to  cry  : 

“Up  for  God  and  Massachusetts!  — Set  your 
feet  on  Mammon’s  lie  ! 

Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic  — spin  your  cot- 
ton’s latest  pound  — 

But  in  Heaven’s  name  keep  your  honor  — keep 
the  heart  o’  the  Bay  State  sound ! ” 

Where’s  the  man  for  Massachusetts  ? — Where’s 
the  voice  to  speak  her  free  ? — 

Whereas  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires  from  her 
mountains  to  the  sea? 

Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer  ? — Sits  she 
dumb  in  her  despair  ? — 


258  LINES. 

Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence  ? — Has  she 
none  to  do  and  dare  ? 

Oh  my  God  ! for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up  her 
rusted  shield, 

And  to  plant  again  the  Pine  Tree  in  her  banner’s 
tattered  field ! 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  A VISIT  TO  THE  CITY  OF  WASH- 
INGTON IN  THE  1 2TH  MONTH  OF  1 84  5. 

With  a cold  and  wintry  noon-light, 

On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 

Shadows  weaving  with  the  sunlight 
From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 

Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies  the  half- 
built  town  outspread. 

Through  this  broad  street,  restless  ever, 
Ebbs  and  flows  a human  tide, 

Wave  on  wave  a living  river ; 

Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side ; 

Toiler,  idler,  slave  and  master,  in  the  same 
quick  current  glide. 

Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  coping 
Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall, 


t 


LINES . 


259 


Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 
For  the  largess,  base  and  small, 

Which  the  hand  of  Power  is  scattering,  crumbs 
which  from  its  table  fall. 

Base  of  heart ! They  vilely  barter 
Honor’s  wealth  for  party’s  place : 

Step  by  step  on  Freedom’s  charter* 

Leaving  footprints  of  disgrace  ; 

For  to-day’s  poor  pittance  turning  from  the  great 
hope  of  their  race. 

Yet,  where  festal  lamps  are  throwing 
Glory  round  the  dancer’s  hair, 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel’s  flowing 
Backward  on  the  sunset  air ; 

And  the  low  quick  pulse  of  music  beats  its 
measures  sweet  and  rare: 

There  to-night  shall  woman’s  glances, 
Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them, 

Fawning  fools  with  shy  advances 
Seek  to  touch  their  garments’  hem, 

With  the  tongue  of  flattery  glozing  deeds  which 
God  and  Truth  condemn. 

From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 
Takes  a broader,  sadder  range, 

Full  before  me  have  arisen 


26o 


LINES . 


Other  pictures  dark  and  strange  ; 

From  the  parlor  to  the  prison  must  the  scene 
and  witness  change. 

Hark ! the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 
On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow ; 

One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 
On  a fearful  group  below 
Such  a light  as  leaves  to  terror  whatsoe’er  it  does 
not  show. 

Pitying  God  ! — Is  that  a woman 
On  whose  wrist  the  shackles  clash  ? 

Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human, 

Underneath  the  stinging  lash? 

Are  they  men  whose  eyes  of  madness  from  that 
sad  procession  flash? 

Still  the  dance  goes  gayly  onward ! 

What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride? 

That  without  the  stars  are  looking 
On  a scene  which  earth  should  hide? 

That  the  slave-ship  lies  in  waiting,  rocking  on 
Potomac’s  tide ! 

Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 
Which,  upon  a rival’s  fall, 

Winds  above  its  old  condition, 

With  a reptile’s  slimy  crawl, 


Shall  the  pleading  voice  of  sorrow,  shall  the 
slave  in  anguish  call. 

Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 

Graceful  luxuries  of  compassion, 

Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go  ; 

Hateful  seems  the  earnest  sorrow,  beautiful  the 
hollow  show ! 

Nay,  my  words  are  all  too  sweeping : 

In  this  crowded  human  mart, 

Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping; 

Man’s  strong  will  and  woman’s  heart, 

In  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,  yet  shall  bear 
their  generous  part. 

And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys, 

Southward  in  the  distance  lost, 

Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 
Worthier  than  the  North  can  boast, 

With  the  Evil  by  their  hearth- stones  grappling 
at  severer  cost. 

Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing : 

Faint  the  heart  and  weak  the  knee ; 

And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With  the  mighty  words  “ Be  Free  !w 
Tarrieth  long  the  land’s  Good  Angel,  but  his 
advent  is  to  be ! 


262 


LINES. 


Meanwhile,  -turning  from  the  revel 
To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 

For  intenser  hate  of  evil, 

For  a keener  sense  of  right, 

Shaking  off  thy  dust,  I thank  thee,  City  of  the 
Slaves,  to-night ! 

a To  thy  duty  now  and  ever  ! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay ; 

Give  to  Freedom’s  great  endeavor 
All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day  : ” — 

Thus,  above  the  city’s  murmur,  saith  a Voice  01 
seems  to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 
To  discern  and  love  the  right, 

Whose  worn  faces  have  been  lifted 
To  the  slowly-growing  light, 

Where  from  Freedom’s  sunrise  drifted  slowly 
back  the  murk  of  night ! — 

Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 
Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast, 

While  a lengthening  shade  the  dial 
From  the  westering  sunshine  cast, 

And  of  hope  each  hour’s  denial  seemed  an  echo 
of  the  last ! — 

Oh,  my  brothers  ! oh,  my  sisters  ! 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near, 


LINES. 


263 


Gazing  with  me  down  the  vistas 
Of  a sorrow  strange  and  drear ; 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  listening  to  the  Voice 
I seem  to  hear  ! 

With  the  storm  above  us  driving, 

With  the  false  earth  mined  below  — 

Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving 
We  have  counted  friend  as  foe ; 

Unto  one  another  giving  in  the  darkness  blow 
for  blow. 

W ell  it  may  be  that  our  natures 

Have  grown  sterner  and  more  hard. 

And  the  freshness  of  their  features 
Somewhat  harsh  and  battle-scarred, 

And  their  harmonies  of  feeling  overtasked  and 
rudely  jarred. 

Be  it  so.  It  should  not  swerve  us 
From  a purpose  true  and  brave ; 

Dearer  Freedom’s  rugged  service 
Than  the  pastime  of  the  slave  ; 

Better  is  the  storm  above  it  than  the  quiet  of  the 
grave. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  bury 
All  our  idle  feuds  in  dust, 

And  to  future  conflicts  carry 


264 


LINES . 


Mutual  faith  and  common  trust ; 

Always  he  who  most  forgiveth  in  his  brother  is 
most  just. 

From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 
All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 

Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 
Bid  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 

Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces,  falling 
on  the  inward  ear. 

Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 
Downward  with  a sad  surprise, 

All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 
With  their  mild  and  loving  eyes? 

Shall  we  grieve  the  holy  angels  ? Shall  we 
cloud  their  blessed  skies  ? 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o’er  us 
* Which  have  fallen  m our  way ; 

Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 

Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 

Ere  the  long  night-silence  cometh,  and  with  us 
it  is  not  day ! 


LINES. 


26$ 


LINES. 

FROM  A LETTER  TO  A YOUNG  CLERICAL 
FRIEND. 

A strength  Thy  service  cannot  tire  — 

A faith  which  doubt  can  never  dim  — 

A heart  of  love,  a lip  of  fire  — 

Oh  ! Freedom’s  God ! be  Thou  to  him  I 

Speak  through  him  words  of  power  and  fear. 
As  through  Thy  prophet  bards  of  old, 

And  let  a scornful  people  hear 

Once  more  Thy  Sinai-thunders  rolled. 

For  lying  lips  Thy  blessing  seek, 

And  hands  of  blood  are  raised  to  Thee, 

And  on  Thy  children,  crushed  and  weak. 

The  oppressor  plants  his  kneeling  knee0 

Let  then,  oh,  God  ! Thy  servant  dare 
Thy  truth  in  all  its  power  to  tell, 

Unmask  the  priestly  thieves,  and  tear 
The  Bible  from  the  grasp  of  hell ! 

From  hollow  rite  and  narrow  span 
Of  law  and  sect  by  Thee  released, 


266 


YORK  TO  WAT. 


Oh  ! teach  him.  that  the  Christian  man 
Is  holier  than  the  Jewish  priest. 

Chase  back  the  shadows  gray  and  old, 

Of  the  dead  ages,  from  his  way, 

And  let  his  hopeful  eyes  behold 

The  dawn  of  Thy  millennial  day ; — 

That  day  when  fettered  limb  and  mind 
Shall  know  the  truth  which  maketh  free, 
And  he  alone  who  loves  his  kind 

Shall,  child-like,  claim  the  love  of  Thee ! 


YORKTOWN. 

From  Yorktown’s  74  ruins,  ranked  and  still, 
Two  lines  stretch  far  o’er  vale  and  hill : 
Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one  ? 

Hark  ! the  low  murmur  : Washington  ! 
.Who  bends  his  keen,  approving  glance 
Where  down  the  gorgeous  line  of  France 
Shine  knightly  star  and  plume  of  snow? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau  ! 

The  earth  which  bears  this  calm  array 
Shook  with  the  war  charge  yesterday, 


YORK  TO  WN.  267 

Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof  and  wheel, 
Shot-sown  and  bladed  thick  with  steel ; 
October’s  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled  in  the  breath-smoke  of  the  gun. 

And  down  night’s  double  blackness  fell, 

Like  a dropped  star,  the  blazing  shell. 

Now  all  is  hushed  : the  gleaming  lines 
Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring  pines ; 

While  through  them,  sullen,  grim,  and  slow, 
The  conquered  hosts  of  England  go  : 

O’Hara’s  brow  belies  his  dress, 

Gay  Tarleton’s  troop  ride  bannerless  : 

Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted  homes, 

Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes  ! 

Nor  thou  alone  : with  one  glad  voice 
Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice  ; 

Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 
She  waits  with  sleepless  eye  her  time, 

Shouting  from  cave  and  mountain  wood, 

Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 

While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with  fear : 

The  New  World’s  chain  lies  broken  here  ! 

But  who  are  they,  who,  cowering,  wait 
Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate? 

Dark  tillers  of  Virginia’s  soil, 

Classed  with  the  battle’s  common  spoil, 

With  household  stuffs,  and  fowl,  and  swine, 


268 


YORKTOWN. 


With  Indian  weed  and  planters’  wine, 

With  stolen  beeves,  and  foraged  corn  — 

Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  born? 

Oh  ! veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave! 

Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  grave  ! 

Sons  of  the  North-land,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet, 

And  pressed  with  steady  footfall  near 
The  moated  battery’s  blazing  tier, 

Turn  your  scarred  faces  from  the  sight, 

Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right ! 

Lo  ! threescore  years  have  passed  ; and  where 
The  Gaelic  timbrel  stirred  the  air, 

With  Northern  drum-roll,  and  the  clear, 

Wild  horn-blow  of  the  mountaineer, 

While  Britain  grounded  on  that  plain 
The  arms  she  might  not  lift  again, 

As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 
The  slkve  still  toils  his  life  away. 

Oh  ! fields  still  green  and  fresh  in  story, 

Old  days  of  pride,  old  names  of  glory, 

Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 

Old  thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts  of  men, 
Ye  spared  the  wrong;  and  over  all 
Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall ! 

Your  world-wide  honor  stained  with  shame  — 
Your  freedom’s  self  a hollow  name  ! 


LINES. 


269 


Where’s  now  the  flag  of  that  old  war? 

Where  flows  its  stripe?  Where  burns  its  star? 
Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto’s  day, 

Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 

Where  Mexic  Freedom,  young  and  weak, 
Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle’s  beak : 

Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 

Of  chains  and  slaves,  go  seek  it  there*! 

Laugh,  Prussia,  midst  thy  iron  ranks  ! 

Laugh,  Russia,  from  thy  Neva’s  banks  ! 

Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 
Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn  ! 

Safe  now  is  Speilberg’s  dungeon  cell, 

Safe  drear  Siberia’s  frozen  hell : 

With  Slavery’s  flag  o’er  both  unrolled, 

What  of  the  New  World  fears  the  Old? 


LINES. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  BOOK  OF  A FRIEND. 

On  page  of  thine  I cannot  trace 

The  cold  and  heartless  common-place  — 

A statue’s  fixed  and  marble  grace. 

For  ever  as  these  lines  are  penned, 

Still  with  the  thought  of  thee  will  blend 
That  of  some  loved  and  common  friend  — 


270 


LINES. 


Who  in  life’s  desert  track  has  made 
His  pilgrim  tent  with  mine,  or  strayed 
Beneath  the  same  remembered  shade. 

And  hence  my  pen  unfettered  moves 
In  freedom  which  the  heart  approves  — - 
The  negligence  which  friendship  loves. 

And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  gift  less 
For  simple  air  and  rustic  dress, 

And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness  ? — 

Oh  ! more  than  specious  counterfeit 
Of  sentiment,  or  studied  wit, 

A heart  like  thine  should  value  it. 

Yet  half  I fear  my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  not  to  thee, 

Of  more  than  doubtful  courtesy. 

A banished  name  from  Fashion’s  sphere, 

A lay  unheard  of  Beauty’s  ear, 

Forbid,  disowned,  — what  do  they  here?  — 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came  the  sad  captive’s  clanking  chain  — 

The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 

And  sadder  still,  I saw  the  woe 

Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 

When  Pride’s  strong  footsteps  o’er  them  go. 


I 


LINES. 


2 7r 


Spurned  not  alone  in  walks  abroad, 

But  from  the  “ temples  of  the  Lord  ” 
Thrust  out  apart,  like  things  abhorred. 

Deep  as  I felt,  and  stern  and  strong, 

In  words  which  Prudence  smothered  long, 
My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  wrong ; 

Nor  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 

And  dry  the  tear  on  Sorrow’s  cheek ; 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 

To  pour  the  fiery  breath  of  storm 
Through  the  harsh  trumpet  of  Reform ; 

To  brave  Opinion’s  settled  frown, 

From  ermined  robe  and  saintly  gown, 
While  wrestling  reverenced  Error  down. 

Founts  gushed  beside  my  pilgrim  way, 
Cool  shadows  on  the  green  sward  lay, 
Flowers  swung  upon  the  bending  spray. 

And,  broad  and  bright,  on.  either  hand, 
Stretched  the  green  slopes  of  Fairy  land, 
With  Hope’s  eternal  sunbow  spanned ; 

Whence  voices  called  .me  like  the  flow, 
Which  on  the  listener’s  ear  will  grow, 

Of  forest  streamlets  soft  and  low. 


272 


LINES . 


And  gentle  eyes,  which  still  retain 
Their  picture  on  the  heart  and  brain, 

Smiled,  beckoning  from  that  path  of  pain. 

In  vain  ! — nor  dream,  nor  rest,  nor  pause 
Remain  for  him  who  round  him  draws 
The  battered  mail  of  Freedom’s  cause. 

From  youthful  hopes  — from  each  green  spot 
Of  young  Romance,  and  gentle  Thought, 
Where  storm  and  Tumult  enter  not  — 

From  each  fair  altar,  where  belong 
The  offerings  Love  requires  of  Song 
In  homage  to  her  bright-eyed  throng  — 

With  soul  and  strength,  with  heart  and  hand* 
I turned  to  Freedom’s  struggling  band  — 

To  the  sad  Helots  of  our  land. 

What  marvel  then  that  Fame  should  turn 
Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of  scorn  — 

Her  gifts  reclaimed  — her  smiles  withdrawn? 

What  matters  it ! — a few  years  more, 

Life’s  surge  so  restless  heretofore  . 

Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore ! 

In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 
The  shadows  which  we  follow  here  — 

The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmosphere  ! 


LINES, . 


273 


Before  no  vork  of  mortal  hand, 

Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  pearl  gates  of  the  Better  Land  ; 

Alone  in  that  great  love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 

Resteth  the  power  to  “ seek  and  save.ir 

Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 

The  vista  of  the  past  can  view 

One  deed  to  Heaven  and  virtue  true  — 

If  through  the  wreck  of  wasted  powers, 

Of  garlands  wreathed  from  Folly’s  bowers, 
Of  idle  aims  and  misspent  hours  — 

The  eye  can  note  one  sacred  spot 
By  Pride  and  Self  profaned  not  — 

A green  place  in  the  waste  of  thought  — 

Where  deed  or  word  hath  rendered  less 
“The  sum  of  human  wretchedness,” 

And  Gratitude  looks  forth  to  bless  — 

The  simple  burst  of  tenderest  feeling 
From  sad  hearts  worn  by  evil-dealing, 

For  blessing  on  the  hand  of  healing, - 

Better  than  Glory’s  pomp  will  be 
That  green  and  blessed  spot  to  me  — 

A palm-shade  in  Eternity!  — 


274 


LINES. 


Something  of  Time  which  may  invite 
The  purified  and  spiritual  sight 
To  rest  on  with  a calm  delight. 

And  when  the  summer  winds  shall  sweep 
With  their  light  wings  my  place  of  sleep, 
And  mosses  round  my  head-stone  creep  — 

If  still,  as  Freedom’s  rallying  sign, 

Upon  the  young  heart’s  altars  shine 
The  very  fires  they  caught  from  mine  — 

If  words  my  lips  once  uttered  still, 

In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfil  — 

Perchance  with  joy  the  soul  may  learn 
These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern 
The  fires  which  on  those  altars  burn  — 

A marvellous  joy  that  even  then, 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again, 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I bring, 

No  gay  and  graceful  offering  — 

No  flower-smile  of  the  laughing  spring. 

Midst  the  green  buds  of  Youth’s  fresh  May, 
With  Fancy’s  leaf-enwoven  bay, 

My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I lay. 


LUXES. 


275 


And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 
A sense  of  suffering  human  kind  — 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind  : 

Oppressed  and  spoiled  on  every  side, 

By  Prejudice,  and  Scorn,  and  Pride, 

Life’s  common  courtesies  denied ; 

Sad  mothers  mourning  o’er  their  trust, 
Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 

Tasting  life’s  bitter  cup  at  first ; 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  fireless  hearth,  and  crowded  room, 

And  the  close  alley’s  noisome  gloom  — 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to  thee 
In  mute  beseeching  agony, 

Thou  lend’st  thy  woman’s  sympathy  — 

Not  vainly  on  thy  gentle  shrine, 

Where  Love,  and  Mirth,  and  Friendship  twine 
Their  varied  gifts,  I offer  mine. 


PAk  %ISINE. 


277 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


PALESTINE. 

Blest  land  of  Judea ! thrice  hallowed  of  song, 

Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pilgrim-like 
throng ; 

In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the  shores  of  thy 
sea, 

On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart  is  with  thee. 

With  the  eye  of  a spirit  I look  on  that  shore, 

Where  pilgrim  and  prophet  have  lingered  before } 

With  the  glide  of  a spirit  I traverse  the  sod 

Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the  angels  of  God. 

Blue  sea  of  the  hills  ! — in  my  spirit  I hear 

Thy  waters,  Genesaret,  chime  on  my  ear; 

Where  the  Lowly  and  Just  with  the  people  sat 
down, 

And  thy  spray  on  the  dust  of  His  sandals  was 
thrown. 


278 


PALESTINE. 


Beyond  are  Bethulia’s  mountains  of  green, 

And  the  desolate  hills  of  the  wild  Gadarene ; 
And  I pause  on  the  goat-crags  of  Tabor  to  see 
The  gleam  of  thy  waters,  O dark  Galilee  ! 

Hark,  a sound  in  the  valley ! where,  swollen 
and  strong,1 

Thy  river,  O Kishon,  is  sweeping  along ; 

Where  the  Canaanite  strove  with  Jehovah  in 
vain, 

And  thy  torrent  grew  dark  with  the  blood  of  the 
slain. 

There  down  from  the  mountains  stern  Zebulon 
came, 

And  Naphtali’s  stag,  with  his  eye-balls  of  flame, 
And  the  chariots  of  Jabin  rolled  harmlessly  on, 
For  the  arm  of  the  Lord  was  Abinoam’s  son! 

There  sleep  the  still  rocks  and  the  caverns 
which  rang 

To  the  song  which  the  beautiful  prophetess  sang, 
When  the  princes  of  Issachar  stood  by  her  side, 
And  the  shout  of  a host  in  its  triumph  replied. 

Lo,  Bethlehem’s  hill-site  before  me  is  seen, 
With  the  mountains  around,  and  the  valleys 
between ; 

There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah,  and  there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on  the  air. 


PALESTINE. 


279 

And  Bethany’s  palm-trees  in  beauty  still  throw 

Their  shadows  at  noon  on  the  ruins  below ; 

But  where  are  the  sisters  who  hastened  to  greet 

The  lowly  Redeemer,  and  sit  at  His  feet  ? 

I tread  where  the  twelve  in  their  way-faring 
trod ; 

I stand  where  they  stood  with  the  chosen  of 
God  — 

Where  His  blessing  was  heard  and  His  lessons 
were  taught, 

Where  the  blind  were  restored  and  the  healing 
was  wrought. 

Oh,  here  with  His  flock  the  sad  Wanderer  came  — 

These  hills  He  toiled  over  in  grief,  are  the 
same  — 

The  founts  where  He  drank  by  the  wayside  still 
flow, 

And  the  same  airs  are  blowing  which  breathed 
on  His  brow ! 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusalem  yet, 

But  with  dust  on  her  forehead,  and  chains  on 
her  feet  5 

For  the  crown  of  her  pride  to  the  mocker  hath 
gone, 

And  the  holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where  it  shone. 

But  wherefore  this  dream  of  the  earthly  abode 

Of  Humanity  clothed  in  the  brightness  of  God? 


28o 


PALESTINE. 


Were  my  spirit  but  turned  from  the  outward 
and  dim. 

It  could  gaze,  even  now,  on  the  presence  of 
Him! 

Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but  gentle  as  when, 

In  love  and  in  meekness,  He  moved  among 
men ; 

And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace  to  the 
waves  of  the  sea, 

In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whisper  to  me  ! 

And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread  where  He 
stood, 

Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Galilee’s  flood’. 

Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  He  bowed  him 
to  bear, 

Nor  my  knees  press  Gethsemane’s  garden  of 
prayer. 

Yet  loved  of  the  Father,  Thy  Spirit  is  near 

To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  penitent  here; 

And  the  voice  of  Thy  love  is  the  same  even  now, 

As  at  Bethany’s  tomb,  or  on  Olivet’s  brow. 

Oh,  the  outward  hath  gone  ! — but  in  glory  and 
power, 

The  spirit  surviveth  the  things  of  an  hour  ; 

Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pentecost  flame 

On  the  heart’s  secret  altar  is  burning  the  same  ! 


EZEKIEL . 


281 


EZEKIEL. 

CHAPTER  XXXIII.  30-33. 

They  hear  thee  not,  O God  ! nor  see  : 
Beneath  Thy*rod  they  mock  at  Thee ; 

The  princes  of  our  ancient  line 
Lie  drunken  with  Assyrian  wine ; 

The  priests  around  Thy  altar  speak 
The  false  words  which  their  hearers  seek  ; 
And  hymns  which  Chaldea’s  wanton  maids 
Have  sung  in  Dura’s  idol-shades, 

Are  with  the  Levites’  chant  ascending, 
With  Zion’s  holiest  anthems  blending ! 

On  Israel’s  bleeding  bosom  set, 

The  heathen  heel  is  crushing  yet ; 

The  towers  upon  our  holy  hill 
Echo  Chaldean  footsteps  still. 

Our  wasted  shrines  — who  weeps  for  them? 
Who  mourneth  for  Jerusalem? 

Who  turneth  from  his  gains  away? 

Whose  knee  with  mine  is  bowed  to  pray? 
Who,  leaving  feast  and  purpling  cup, 

Takes  Zion’s  lamentation  up  ? 

A sad  and  thoughtful  youth,  I went 
With  Israel’s  early  banishment ; 


282 


EZEKIEL . 


And  where  the  sullen  Chebar  crept, 

The  ritual  of  my  fathers  kept. 

The  water  for  the  trench  I drew, 

The  firstling  of  the  flock  I slew, 

And,  standing  at  the  altar’s  side, 

I shared  the  Levites’  lingering  pride, 
That  still  amidst  her  mocking  foes, 

The  smoke  of  Zion’s  offering  rose. 

In  sudden  whirlwind,  cloud  and  flame, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Highest  came  ! 

Before  mine  eyes  a vision  passed, 

A glory  terrible  and  vast ; 

With  dreadful  eyes  of  living  things, 

And  sounding  sweep  of  angel  wings, 
With  circling  light  and  sapphire  throne5 
And  flame-like  form  of  One  thereon, 
And  voice  of  that  dread  Likeness  sent 
Down  from  the  crystal  firmament ! 

The  burden  of  a prophet’s  power 
Fell  on  me  in  that  fearful  hour ; 

From  off  unutterable  woes 
The  curtain  of  the  future  rose  ; 

I saw  far  down  the  coming  time 
The  fiery  chastisement  of  crime ; 

With  noise  of  mingling  hosts,  and  jar 
Of  falling  towers  and  shouts  of  war, 

I saw  the  nations  rise  and  falx, 

Like  fire-gleams  on  my  tent’s  white  wall. 


EZEKIEL . 


283 

In  dream  and  trance  I saw  the  slain 
Of  Egypt  heaped  like  harvest  grain ; 

I saw  the  walls  of  sea-born  Tyre 
Swept  over  by  the  spoiler’s  fire ; 

And  heard  the  low,  expiring  moan 
Of  Edom  on  his  rocky  throne ; 

And,  woe  is  me  ! the  wild  lament 
From  Zion’s  desolation  sent; 

And  felt  within  my  heart  each  blow 
Which  laid  her  holy  places  low. 

In  bonds  and  sorrow,  day  by  day, 

Before  the  pictured  tile  I lay ; 

And  there,  as  in  a mirror,  saw 
The  coming  of  Assyria’s  war,  — 

Her  swarthy  lines  of  spearmen  pass 
Like  locusts  through  Bethhoron’s  grass ; 

I saw  them  draw  their  stormy  hem 
Of  battle  round  Jerusalem  ; 

And,  listening,  heard  the  Hebrew  wail 
Blend  with  the  victor-trump  of  Baal ! 

Who  trembled  at  my  warning  word  ? 

Who  owned  the  prophet  of  the  Lord? 

How  mocked  the  rude  — how  scoffed  the 
vile  — 

How  stung  the  Levites,  scornful  smile, 

As  o’er  my  spirit,  dark  and  slow, 

The  shadow  crept  of  Israel’s  woe, 


284 


EZEKIEL. 


As  if  the  angel’s  mournful  roll 
Had  left  its  record  on  my  soul, 

And  traced  in  lines  of  darkness  there 
The  picture  of  its  great  despair ! 

Yet  ever  at  the  hour  I feel 
My  lips  in  prophecy  unseal. 

Prince,  priest,  and  Levite,  gather  near* 
And  Salem’s  daughters  haste  to  hear, 
On  Chebar’s  waste  and  alien  shore, 
The  harp  of  Judah  swept  once  more. 
They  listen,  as  in  Babel’s  throng 
The  Chaldeans  to  the  dancer’s  song, 
Or  wild  sabbeka’s  nightly  play, 

As  careless  and  as  vain  as  they. 


And  thus,  oh  Prophet-bard  of  old, 

Hast  thou  thy  tale  of  sorrow  told ! 

The  same  which  earth’s  unwelcome  seers 
Have  felt  in  all  succeeding  years. 

Sport  of  the  changeful  multitude, 

Nor  calmly  heard  nor  understood, 

Their  song  has  seemed  a trick  of  art, 
Their  warnings  but  the  actor’s  part- 
With  bonds,  and  scorn,  and  evil  will, 
The  world  requites  its  prophets  still. 

So  was  it  when  the  Holy  One 
The  garments  of  the  flesh  put  on  l 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH.  285 

Men  followed  where  the  Highest  led 
For  common  gifts  of  daily  bread, 

And  gross  of  ear,  of  vision  dim. 

Owned  not  the  God-like  power  of  Him. 
Vain  as  a dreamer’s  words  to  them 
His  wail  above  Jerusalem, 

And  meaningless  the  watch  He  kept 
Through  which  His  weak  disciples  slept. 

Yet  shrink  not  thou,  whoe’er  thou  art. 

For  God’s  great  purpose  set  apart, 

Before  whose  far  discerning  eyes 
The  Future  as  the  Present  lies  ! 

Beyond  a narrow-bounded  age 
Stretches  thy  prophet-heritage, 

Through  Heaven’s  dim  spaces  angel-trod. 
Through  arches  round  the  throne  of  God! 
Thy  audience,  worlds  ! — all  Time  to  be 
The  witness  of  the  Truth  in  thee  ! 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH  TO  HER 
HUSBAND. 

Against  the  sunset’s  glowing  wall 
The  city  towers  rise  black  and  tall, 

Where  Zorah  on  its  rocky  height 
Stands  like  an  armed  man  in  the  light. 


286 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH 


Down  Eshtaol’s  vales  of  ripened  grain 
Falls  like  a cloud  the  night  amain, 

And  up  the  hill-sides  climbing  slow 
The  barley  reapers  homeward  go. 

Look,  dearest ! how  our  fair  child’s  head 
The  sunset  light  hath  hallowed, 

Where  at  this  olive’s  foot  he  lies, 

Uplooking  to  the  tranquil  skies. 

Oh ! while  beneath  the  fervent  heat 
Thy  sickle  swept  the  bearded  wheat, 

I’ve  watched  with  mingled  joy  and  dread, 

Our  child  upon  his  grassy  bed. 

Joy,  which  the  mother  feels  alone 
Whose  morning  hope  like  mine  had  flown. 
When  to  her  bosom,  over  blessed, 

A dearer  life  than  hers  is  pressed. 

Dread,  for  the  future  dark  and  still, 

Which  shapes  our  dear  one  to  its  will ; 

For  ever  in  his  large  calm  eyes 
I read  a tale  of  sacrifice. 

The  same  foreboding  awe  I felt 
When  at  the  alfar’s  side  we  knelt, 

And  he,  who  as  a pilgrim  came, 

Rose,  winged  and  glorious,  through  the  flame 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH.  287 


I slept  not,  though  the  wild  bees  made 
A dreamlike  murmuring  in  the  shade, 

And  on  me  the  warm-fingered  hours 
Pressed  with  the  drowsy  smell  of  flowers. 

Before  me,  in  a vision,  rose 

The  hosts  of  Israel’s  scornful  foes,  — 

Rank  over  rank,  helm,  shield,  and  spear, 
Glittered  in  noon’s  hot  atmosphere. 

I heard  their  boast,  and  bitter  word, 

Their  mockery  of  the  Hebrew’s  Lord, 

I saw  their  hands  His  ark  assail, 

Their  feet  profane  His  holy  veil. 

No  angel  down  the  blue  space  spoke, 

No  thunder  from  the  still  sky  broke, 

But  in  their  midst,  in  power  and  awe, 

Like  God’s  waked  wrath,  our  child  I saw ! 

A child  no  more ! — harsh-browed  and  strong, 
He  towered  a giant  in  the  throng, 

And  down  his  shoulders,  broad  and  bare, 
Swept  the  black  terror  of  his  hair. 

He  raised  his  arm  — he  smote  amain, 

As  round  the  reaper  falls  the  grain, 

So  the  dark  host  around  him  fell, 

So  sank  the  foes  of  Israel ! 


288 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH. 


Again  I looked.  In  sunlight  shone 
The  towers  and  domes  of  Askelon. 

Priest,  warrior,  slave,  a mighty  crowd 
Within  her  idol  temple  bowed. 

Yet  one  knelt  not;  stark,  gaunt,  and  blind, 
His  arms  the  massive  pillars  twined,  — 

An  eyeless  captive,  strong  with  hate, 

He  stood  there  like  an  evil  Fate. 

The  red  shrines  smoked  — the  trumpets  pealed 
He  stooped  — the  giant  columns  reeled  — 
Reeled  tower  and  fane,  sank  arch  and  wall, 
And  the  thick  dust-cloud  closed  o’er  all ! 

Above  the  shriek,  the  crash,  the  groan 
Of  the  fallen  pride  of  Askelon, 

I heard,  sheer  down  the  echoing  sky, 

A voice  as  of  an  angel  cry,  — 

The  voice  of  him,  who  at  our  side 
Sat  through  the  golden  eventide, 

Of  him,  who  on  thy  altar’s  blaze 

Rose  fire-winged,  with  his  song  of  praise  ! 

“ Rejoice  o’er  Israel’s  broken  chain, 

Gray  mother  of  the  mighty  slain  ! 

Rejoice  ! ” it  cried,  “ He  vanquisheth ! 

The  strong  in  life  is  strong  in  death ! 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN, . 289 


“ To  him  shall  Zorah’s  daughters  raise 
Through  coming  years  their  hymns  of  praise, 
And  gray  old  men,  at  evening  tell 
Of  all  he  wrought  for  Israel . 

“ And  they  who  sing  and  they  who  hear 
Alike  shall  hold  thy  memory  dear, 

And  pour  their  blessings  on  thy  head, 

Oh,  mother  of  the  mighty  dead  ! ” 

It  ceased : and  though  a sound  I heard 
As  if  great  wings  the  still  air  stirred, 

I only  saw  the  barley  sheaves, 

And  hills  half  hid  by  olive  leaves. 

I bowed  my  face,  in  awe  and  fear, 

On  the  dear  child  who  slumbered  near, 

“ With  me,  as  with  my  only  son, 

Oh  God  ! ” I said,  “Thy  will  be  done!  ” 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

“ Get  ye  up  from  the  wrath  of  God’s  terrible 
day  ! 

Ungirded,  unsandalled,  arise  and  away  ! 

’Tis  the  vintage  of  blood  — ’tis  the  fulness  of 
time, 

And  vengeance  shall  gather  the  harvest  of 
crime  ! 


29°  THE  cities  of  the  plain. 


The  warning  was  spoken  — the  righteous  had 
gone, 

And  the  proud  ones  of  Sodom  were  feasting 
alone ; 

All  gay  was  the  banquet  — the  revel  was  long, 

With  the  pouring  of  wine  and  the  breathing  of 
song. 

’Twas  an  evening  of  beauty  ; the  air  was  per- 
fume, 

The  earth  was  all  greenness,  the  trees  were  all 
bloom ; 

And  softly  the  delicate  viol  was  heard, 

Like  the  murmur  of  love  or  the  notes  of  a bird. 

And  beautiful  maidens  moved  down  in  the 
dance, 

With  the  magic  of  motion  and  sunshine  of 
glance ; 

And  white  arms  wreathed  lightly,  and  tresses 
fell  free, 

As  the  plumage  of  birds  in  some  tropical  tree. 

Where  the  shrines  of  foul  idols  were  lighted  on 
high, 

And  wantonness  tempted  the  lust  of  the  eye ; 

Midst  rites  of  obsceneness,  strange,  loathsome, 
abhorred, 

The  blasphemer  scoffed  at  the  name  of  the 
Lord. 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN.  291 

Hark  ! the  growl  of  the  thunder  — the  quaking 
of  earth ! 

Woe  — woe  to  the  worship,  and  woe  to  the 
mirth  ! 

The  black  sky  has  opened  — there’s  flame  in 
the  air  — 

The  red  arm  of  vengeance  is  lifted  and  bare ! 

Then  the  shriek  of  the  dying  rose  wild  where 
the  song 

And  the  low  tone  of  love  had  been  whispered 
along ; 

For  the  fierce  flames  went  lightly  o’er  palace 
and  bower, 

Like  the  red  tongues  of  demons,  to  blast  and 
devour ! 

Down  — down,  on  the  fallen,  the  red  ruin 
rained, 

And  the  reveller  sank  with  his  wine-cup  un- 
drained : 

The  foot  of  the  dancer,  the  music’s  loved  thrill, 

And  the  shout  and  the  laughter  grew  suddenly 
stiii : 

The  last  throb  of  anguish  was  fearfully  given  ; 

The  last  eye  glared  forth  in  its  madness  on 
Heaven  ! 

The  last  groan  of  horror  rose  wildly  and  vain, 

And  death  brooded  over  the  pride  of  the  Plain ! 


292 


THE  CRUCIFIXION. 


THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

Sunlight  upon  Judea’s  hills  ! 

And  on  the  waves  of  Galilee  — 

On  Jordan’s  stream,  and  on  the  rills 
That  feed  the  dead  and  sleeping  sea ! 
Most  freshly  from  the  green  wood  springs 
The  light  breeze  on  its  scented  wings ; 

And  gayly  quiver  in  the  sun 
The  cedar  tops  of  Lebanon  ! 

A few  more  hours  — a change  hath  come  S 
The  sky  is  dark  without  a cloud  ! 

The  shouts  of  wrath  and  joy  are  dumb, 
And  proud  knees  unto  earth  are  bowed. 
A change  is  on  the  hill  of  Death, 

The  helmed  watchers  pant  for  breath, 

And  turn  with  wild  and  maniac  eyes 
From  the  dark  scene  of  sacrifice  ! 

That  Sacrifice  ! — the  death  of  Him  — 
The  High  and  ever  Holy  One ! 

Well  may  the  conscious  heaven  grow  dim, 
And  blacken  the  beholding  Sun  ! 

The  wonted  light  hath  fled  away, 

Night  settles  on  the  middle  dav. 


THE  CRUCIFIXION. 


293 


And  earthquake  from  his  caverned  bed 
Is  waking  with  a thrill  of  dread  ! 

The  dead  are  waking  underneath  ! 

Their  prison  door  is  rent  awray  ! 

And,  ghastly  with  the  seal  of  death. 
They  wander  in  the  eye  of  day  ! 

The  temple  of  the  Cherubim, 

The  House  of  God  is  cold  and  dim ; 

A curse  is  on  its  trembling  walls, 

Its  mighty  veil  asunder  falls  ! 

Well  may  the  cavern-depths  of  Earth 
Be  shaken,  and  her  mountains  nod; 
Well  may  the  sheeted  dead  come  forth 
To  gaze  upon  a suffering  God ! 

Well  may  the  temple-shrine  grow  dim. 
And  shadows  veil  the  Cherubim, 

When  He,  the  chosen  one  of  Heaven, 
A sacrifice  for  guilt  is  given ! 

And  shall  the  sinful  heart,  alone, 
BehoM  unmoved  the  atoning  hour. 
When  Nature  trembles  on  her  throne. 
And  Death  resigns  his  iron  power? 
Oh,  shall  the  heart  — whose  sinfulness 
Gave  keenness  to  His  sore  distress, 
And  added  to  His  tears  of  blood  — 
Refuse  its  trembling  gratitude  ! 


294  THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

Where  Time  the  measure  of  his  hours 
By  changeful  bud  and  blossom  keeps, 

And  like  a young  bride  crowned  with  flowers, 
Fair  Shiraz  in  her  garden  sleeps ; 

Where,  to  her  poet’s  turban  stone, 

The  Spring  her  gift  of  flowers  imparts, 

Less  sweet  than  those  his  thoughts  have  sown 
In  the  warm  soil  of  Persian  hearts  : 

There  sat  the  stranger,  where  the  shade 
Of  scattered  date-trees  thinly  lay, 

While  in  the  hot  clear  heaven  delayed 
The  long,  and  still,  and  weary  day. 

Strange  trees  and  fruits  above  him  hung, 
Strange  odors  filled  the  sultry  air, 

Strange  birds  upon  the  branches  swung. 
Strange  insect  voices  murmured  there. 

And  strange  bright  blossoms  shone  around, 
Turned  sunward  from  the  shadowy  bowers, 
As  if  the  Gheber’s  soul  had  found 
A fitting  home  in  Iran’s  flowers. 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM.  295 


Whate’er  he  saw,  whatever  he  heard, 

Awakened  feelings  new  and  sad,  — 

No  Christian  garb,  nor  Christian  word, 

Nor  church  with  Sabbath  bell  chimes  glad ; 

But  Moslem  graves,  with  turban  stones, 

And  mosque-spires  gleaming  white,  in  view, 

And  gray-beard  Mollahs  in  low  tones 
Chanting  their  Koran  service  through. 

The  flowers  which  smiled  on  either  hand 
Like  tempting  fiends,  were  such  as  they 

Which  once,  o’er  all  that  Eastern  land, 

As  gifts  on  demon  altars  lay. 

As  if  the  burning  eye  of  Baal 

The  servant  of  his  Conqueror  knew, 

From  skies  which  knew  no  cloudy  veil, 

The  Sun’s  hot  glances  smote  him  through,, 

“ Ah  me  ! ” the  lonely  stranger  said, 

“ The  hope  which  led  my  footsteps  on, 

And  light  from  Heaven  around  them  shed, 
O’er  weary  wave  and  waste,  is  gone  ! 

“ Where  are  the  harvest  fields  all  white, 

For  Truth  to  thrust  her  sickle  in? 

Where  flock  the  souls,  like  doves  in  flight. 
From  the  dark  hiding  place  of  sin? 


296  THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 


**  A silent  horror  broads  o’er  all  — 

The  burden  of  a hateful  spell  — 

The  very  flowers  around  recall 
The  hoary  magi’s  rites  of  hell ! 

“ And  what  am  I,  o’er  such  a land 
The  banner  of  the  Cross  to  bear? 

Dear  Lord,  uphold  me  with  thy  hand, 

Thy  strength  with  human  weakness  share ! ” 

He  ceased  ; for  at  his  very  feet 

In  mild  rebuke  a floweret  smiled  — 

How  thrilled  his  sinking  heart  to  greet 
The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin’s  child ! 

Sown  by  some  wandering  Frank,  it  drew 
Its  life  from  alien  air  and  earth, 

And  told  to  Paynim  sun  and  dew 
The  story  of  the  Saviour’s  birth. 

From  scorching  beams,  in  kindly  mood, 

The  Persian  plants  its  beauty  screened ; 

And  on  its  pagan  sisterhood, 

In  love,  the  Christian  floweret  leaned. 

With  tears  of  joy  the  wanderer  felt 
The  darkness  of  his  long  despair 

Before  that  hallowed  symbol  melt, 

Which  God’s  dear  love  had  nurtured  there. 


HYMNS . 


297 

From  Nature’s  face,  that  simple  flower 
The  lines  of  sin  and  sadness  swept 

And  Magian  pile  and  Paynim  bower 
In  peace  like  that  of  Eden  slept. 

Each  Moslem  tomb,  and  cypress  old, 

Looked  holy  through  the  sunset  air ; 

And  angel-like,  the  Muezzin  told 

From  tower  and  mosque  the  hour  of  prayer. 

With  cheerful  steps,  the  morrow’s  dawn 
From  Shiraz  saw  the  stranger  part ; 

The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin-Born 
Still  blooming  in  his  hopeful  heart ! 


HYMNS. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  LAMARTINE. 

One  hymn  more,  O my  lyre! 

Praise  to  the  God  above, 

* Of  joy  and  life  and  love, 
Sweeping  its  strings  of  fire  ! 

Oh ! who  the  speed  of  bird  and  wind 
And  sunbeam's  glance  will  lend  to  me, 
That,  soaring  upward,  I may  find 

My  resting  place  and  home  in  Thee?  — 


298  HYMNS. 

Thou,  whom  my  soul,  midst  doubt  and  gloom, 
Adoreth  with  a fervent  flame  — 

Mysterious  spirit ! unto  whom 
Pertain  nor  sign  nor  name  ! 

Swiftly  my  lyre’s  soft  murmurs  go, 

Up  from  the  cold  and  joyless  earth, 

Back  to  the  God  who  bade  them  flow, 

Whose  moving  spirit  sent  them  forth. 

But  as  for  me,  O God  ! for  me, 

The  lowly  creature  of  Thy  will, 

Lingering  and  sad,  I sigh  to  Thee, 

An  earth-bound  pilgrim  still ! 

Was  not  my  spirit  born  to  shine 

Where  yonder  stars  and  suns  are  glowing? 

To  breathe  with  them  the  light  divine, 

From  God’s  own  holy  altar  flowing? 

To  be,  indeed,  whate’er  the  soul 

In  dreams  hath  thirsted  for  so  long  — 

A portion  of  Heaven’s  glorious  whole 
Of  loveliness  and  song? 

Oh  ! watchers  of  the  stars  at  night, 

Who  breathe  their  fire,  as  we  the  air  — 

Suns,  thunders,  stars,  and  rays  of  light, 

Oh ! say,  is  He,  the  Eternal,  there? 

Bend  there  around  His  awful  throne 
The  seraph’s  glance,  the  angel’s  knee? 


HYMNS. 


299 

Or  are  thy  inmost  depths  his  own, 

O wild  and  mighty  sea  ? 

Thoughts  of  my  soul,  how  swift  ye  go ! 

Swift  as  the  eagle’s  glance  of  fire, 

Or  arrows  from  the  archer’s  bow, 

To  the  far  aim  of  your  desire  ! 

Thought  after  thought,  ye  thronging  rise, 

Like  spring-doves  from  the  startled  wood, 
Bearing  like  them  your  sacrifice 
Of  music  unto  God  ! 

And  shall  these  thoughts  of  joy  and  love 
Come  back  again  no  more  to  me?  — 
Returning  like  the  Patriarch’s  dove 
Wing-weary  from  the  eternal  sea, 

To  bear  within  my  longing  arms 

The  promise-bough  of  kindlier  skies, 
Plucked  from  the  green,  immortal  palms 
Which  shadow  Paradise? 

All-moving  spirit ! — freely  forth 

At  Th)*  command  the  strong  wind  goes ; 

Its  errand  to  the  passive  earth, 

Nor  art  can  stay,  nor  strength  oppose. 

Until  it  folds  its  weary  wing 

Once  more  within  the  hand  divine ; 

So,  weary  from  its  wandering, 

My  spirit  turns  to  Thine ! 


3°° 


HYMNS . 


Child  of  the  sea,  the  mountain  stream, 

From  its  dark  caverns,  hurries  on, 
Ceaseless,  by  night  and  morning’s  beam, 

By  evening’s  star  and  noontide’s  sun, 

Until  at  last  it  sinks  to  rest, 

O’erwearied,  in  the  waiting  sea, 

And  moans  upon  its  mother’s  breast  — 

So  turns  my  soul  to  Thee ! 

O Thou  who  bidst  the  torrent  flow, 

Who  lendest  wings  unto  the  wind  — 

Mover  of  all  things  ! where  art  Thou? 

Oh,  whither  shall  I go  to  find 
The  secret  of  Thy  resting  place? 

Is  there  no  holy  wing  for  me, 

That,  soaring,  I may  search  the  space 
Of  highest  Heaven  for  Thee? 

Oh,  would  I were  as  free  to  rise 

As  leaves  on  Autumn’s  whirlwind  borne  — 
The  arrowy  light  of  sunset  skies, 

Or  sound,  or  ray,  or  star  of  morn 
Which  melts  in  heaven  at  twilight’s  close, 

Or  aught  which  soars  unchecked  and  free 
Through  Earth  and  Heaven  ; that  I might  lose 
Myself  in  finding  Thee  ! 


When  the  breath  divine  is  flowing, 
Zephyr-like’ o’er  all  things  going, 


HYMNS. 


3QI 


And  as  the  touch  of  viewless  fingers, 
Softly  on  my  soul  it  lingers, 

Open  to  a breath  the  lightest, 
Conscious  of  a touch  the  slightest  — 
As  some  calm  still  lake,  whereon 
Sinks  the  snowy-bosomed  swan, 

And  the  glistening  water-rings 
Circle  round  her  moving  wings  : 

When  my  upward  gaze  is  turning 
Where  the  stars  of  heaven  are  burning 
Through  the  deep  and  dark  abyss  — 
Flowers  of  midnight’s  wilderness, 
Blowing  with  the  evening’s  breath 
Sweetly  in  their  Maker’s  path  : 

When  the  breaking  day  is  flushing 
All  the  past,  and  light  is  gushing 
Upward  through  the  horizon’s  haze, 
Sheaf-like,  with  its  thousand  rays 
Spreading,  until  all  above 
Overflows  with  joy  and  love, 

And  below,  on  earth’s  green  bosom, 
All  is  changed  to  light  and  blossom : 

When  my  waking  fancies  over 
Forms  of  brightness  flit  and  hover, 
Holy  as  the  seraphs  are, 

Who  by  Zion’s  fountains  wear 
On  their  foreheads,  white  and  broad, 
“Holiness  unto  the  Lord!” 


302 


HYMNS. 


When,  inspired  with  rapture  high, 

It  would  seem  a single  sigh 
Could  a world  of  love  create  — 

That  my  love  could  know  no  date, 

And  my  eager  thoughts  could  fill 
Heaven  and  Earth,  o’erflowing  still ! — 

Then,  O Father!  — Thou  alone, 

From  the  shadow  of  Thy  throne, 

To  the  sighing  of  my  breast 
And  its  rapture  answerest. 

All  my  thoughts,  which,  upward  winging, 
Bathe  where  Thy  own  light  is  springing  — 
All  my  yearnings  to  be  free 
Are  as  echoes  answering  Thee ! 

Seldom  upon  lips  of  mine 

Father ! rests  that  name  of  Thine  — 

Deep  within  my  inmost  breast, 

In  the  secret  place  of  mind, 

Like  an  awful  presence  shrined, 

Doth  the  dread  idea  rest ! 

Hushed  and  holy  dwells  it  there  — 
Prompter  of  the  silent  prayer, 

Lifting  up  my  spirit’s  eye 
And  its  faint,  but  earnest  cry, 

From  its  dark  and  cold  abode, 

Unto  Thee,  my  Guide  and  God ! 


THE  FEMALE  MART  YE . 


303 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR.75 

“ Bring  out  your  dead  ! ” the  midnight  street 
Heard,  and  gave  back  the  hoarse,  low  call ; 
Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  hasty  feet  — 

Glanced  through  the  dark  the  coarse  white 
sheet  — 

Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 

“ What  — only  one  ! ” The  brutal  hackman 
said, 

As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurned  away  the  dead. 

How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 

As  rolled  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 

With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof-fall ! 

The  dying  turned  him  to  the  wall, 

To  hear  it  and  to  die  ! — 

Onward  it  rolled  ; while  oft  its  driver  stayed, 
And  hoarsely  clamored,  “Ho!  — bring  out 
your  dead.” 

It  paused  beside  the  burial-place  ; 

“ Toss  in  your  load  ! ” — and  it  was  done. 
With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 

Hastily  to  the  grave’s  embrace 
They  cast  them,  one  by  one  — 

Stranger  and  friend  — the  evil  and  the  just, 
Together  trodden  in  the  church-yard  dust! 


304 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR. 


And  thou,  young  martyr!  — thou  wast  there  — 
No  white-robed  sisters  round  thee  trod  — 

Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome  air, 

Giving  thee  to  thy  God ; 

Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallowed  taper  gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the  grave  ! 

Yet,  gentle  sufferer  ! — there  shall  be, 

In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 

A rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  convent-tree 
Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 

At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  angels,  keeping 
Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place  of  sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 
Of  Heaven’s  own  love  was  kindled  well, 
Enduring  with  a martyr’s  might, 

Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night, 

Far  more  than  words  may  tell : 

Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  unknown  — 
Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  God  alone  ! 

Where  manly  hearts  were  failing,  — where 
The  throngful  street  grew  foul  with  death, 

O high-souled  martyr  ! — thou  wast  there, 
Inhaling  from  the  loathsome  air, 

Poison  with  every  breath. 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR . 


305 


Yet  shrinking  not  from  offices  of  dread 

For  the  wrung  dying,  and  the  unconscious  dead. 

And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 

Its  light  through  vapors,  damp,  confined, 
Hushed  as  a seraph’s  fell  thy  tread  — 

A new  Electra  by  the  bed 
Of  suffering  human-kind  ! 

Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 

To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not  away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 
And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven ! 

How  turned  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 

In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 

As  thy  low  prayers  were  given ; 

And  the  o’er-hovering  Spoiler  wore,  the  while. 
An  angel’s  features  — a deliverer’s  smile  ! 

A blessed  task  ! — and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thou, 

Before  life’s  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and  sun, 

Had  sealed  her  early  vow ; 

Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 

Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless  truth. 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee.  Nothing  here 
Could  be  for  thee  a meet  reward ; 


3°6  THE  FROST  SPIRIT 

Thine  is  a treasure  far  more  dear  — 

Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 
Of  living  mortal  heard,  — 

The  joys  prepared  — the  promised  bliss  above  — 
The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love ! 

Sleep  on  in  peace.  The  earth  has  not 
A nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 

The  deeds  by  martial  manhood  wrought, 

The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 

The  fire  of  poesy  — 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  honors ; — thine 
Shall  Time  unto  Eternity  consign. 

Yea,  and  when  thrones  shall  crumble  down, 

And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall,  — 

The  herald’s  line  of  long  renown  — 

The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown  — 

Perishing  glories  all ! 

The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 
Shall  live  in  Heaven,  of  which  it  was  a part ! 


THE  FROST  SPIRIT. 

He  comes  — he  comes  — the  F rost  Spirit  comes ! 

You  may  trace  his  footsteps  now 
On  the  naked  woods  and  the  blasted  fields  and 
the  brown  hill’s  withered  brow. 


THE  FROST  SPIRIT 


3°  7 


He  has  smitten  the  leaves  of  the  gray  old  trees 
where  their  pleasant  green  came  forth, 
And  the  winds,  which  follow  wherever  he  goes, 
have  shaken  them  down  to  earth. 

He  comes  — he  comes  — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  !* 

— from  the  frozen  Labrador  — 

From  the  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern  seas,  which 
the  white  bear  wanders  o’er  — 

Where  the  fisherman’s  sail  is  stiff  with  ice,  and 
the  luckless  forms  below 
In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night  into 
marble  statues  grow ! 

He  comes  — he  comes  — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  ! 

— on  the  rushing  Northern  blast, 

And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have  bowed  as 
his  fearful  breath  went  past. 

With  an  unscorched  wing  he  has  hurried  on, 
where  the  fires  of  Hecla  glow 
On  the  darkly  beautiful  sky  above  and  the 
ancient  ice  below. 

He  comes  — he  comes  — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  ! 

— and  the  quiet  lake  shall  feel 

The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath,  and 
ring  to  the  skater’s  heel ; 

And  the  streams  which  danced  on  the  broken 
rocks,  or  sang  to  the  leaning  grass, 


308  the  vaudois  teacher. 


Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain,  and  in 
mournful  silence  pass. 

He  comes  — he  comes  — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  ! 
— let  us  meet  him  as  we  may, 

And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlor-fire  his  evil 
power  away ; 

And  gather  closer  the  circle  round,  when  that 
firelight  dances  high, 

And  laugh  at  the  shriek  of  the  baffled  Fiend  as 
his  sounding  wing  goes  by  ! 


THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER.76 

“ Oh,  lady  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beautiful 
and  rare  — 

The  richest  web  of  the  Indian  loom,  which 
beauty’s  queen  might  wear ; 

And  my  pearls  are  pure  as  thy  own  fair  neck, 
with  whose  radiant  light  they  vie ; 

I have  brought  them  with  me  a weary  way,  — 
will  my  gentle  lady  buy  ? ” 

And  the  lady  smiled  on  the  worn  old  man 
through  the  dark  and  clustering  curls, 

Which  veiled  her  brow  as  she  bent  to  view  his 
silks  and  glittering  pearls  ; 


THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER.  309 


And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old  man’s  hand, 
and  lightly  turned  away, 

But  she  paused  at  the  wanderer’s  earnest  call  — 
“ My  gentle  lady,  stay  ! ” 

“Oh,  lady  fair,  I have  yet  a gem  which  a purer 
lustre  flings, 

Than  the  diamond  flash  of  the  jewelled  crown  on 
the  lofty  brow  of  kings  — 

A wonderful  pearl  of  exceeding  price,  whose  vir- 
tue shall  not  decay, 

Whose  light  shall  be  as  a spell  to  thee  and  a 
blessing  on  thy  way  ! ” 

The  lady  glanced  at  the  mirrowing  steel  where 
her  form  of  grace  was  seen. 

Where  her  eye  shone  clear,  and  her  dark  locks 
waved  their  clasping  pearls  between  ; — 

“ Bring  forth  thy  pearl  of  exceeding  worth,  thou 
traveller  gray  and  old  — 

And  name  the  price  of  thy  precious  gem,  and 
my  page  shall  count  thy  gold.” 

The  cloud  went  off  from  the  pilgrim’s  brow,  as 
a small  and  meagre  book, 

Unchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost,  from  his 
folding  robe  he  took  ! 

“ Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price,  may  it 
prove  as  such  to  thee ! 


3io  THE  CALL  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN. 


Nay  — keep  thy  gold  — I ask  it  not,  for  the 
word  of  God  is  free  ! ” 

The  hoary  traveller  went  his  way,  but  the  gift  he 
left  behind 

Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work  on  that  high- 
born maiden’s  mind, 

And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of  sin  to  the 
lowliness  of  truth, 

And  given  her  human  heart  to  God  in  its  beauti- 
ful hour  of  youth ! 

And  she  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls,  where  an 
evil  faith  had  power, 

The  courtly  knights  of  her  father’s  train,  and  the 
maidens  of  her  bower  ; 

And  she  hath  gone  to  the  Vaudois  vales  by  lordly 
feet  untrod, 

Where  the  poor  and  needy  of  earth  are  rich  in 
the  perfect  love  of  God ! 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

Not  always  as  the  whirlwind’s  rush 
On  Horeb’s  mount  of  fear, 

Not  always  as  the  burning  bush 
To  Midian’s  shepherd  seer, 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN.  31I 


Nor  as  the  awful  voice  which  came 
To  Israel’s  prophet  bards, 

Nor  as  the  tongues  of  cloven  flame, 

Nor  gift  of  fearful  words, — 

Not  always  thus,  with  outward  sign 
Of  fire  or  voice  from  Heaven, 

The  message  of  a truth  divine, 

The  call  of  God  is  given  ! 

Awaking  in  the  human  heart 
Love  for  the  true  and  right  — 

Zeal  for  the  Christian’s  “ better  part,” 
Strength  for  the  Christian’s  fight. 

Nor  unto  manhood’s  heart  alone 
The  holy  influence  steals : 

Warm  with  a rapture  not  its  own, 

The  heart  of  woman  feels  ! 

As  she  who  by  Samaria’s  wall 
The  Saviour’s  errand  sought  — 

As  those  who  with  the  fervent  Paul 
And  meek  Aquila  wrought : 

Or  those  meek  ones  whose  martyrdom 
Rome’s  gathered  grandeur  saw  : 

Or  those  who  in  their  Alpine  home 
Braved  the  Crusader’s  war, 

When  the  green  Vaudois,  trembling,  heard. 
Through  all  its  vales  of  death, 


312  THE  CALL  OF  THE  CHRLSTIAH 


The  martyr’s  song  of  triumph  poured 
From  woman’s  failing  breath. 

And  gently,  by  a thousand  things 
Which  o’er  our  spirits  pass, 

Like  breezes  o’er  the  harp’s  fine  strings. 
Or  vapors  o’er  a glass, 

Leaving  their  token  strange  and  new 
Of  music  or  of  shade, 

The  summons  to  the  right  and  true 
And  merciful  is  made. 

Oh,  then,  if  gleams  of  truth  and  light 
Flash  o’er  thy  waiting  mind, 
Unfolding  to  thy  mental  sight 
The  wants  of  human  kind  ; 

If  brooding  over  human  grief, 

The  earnest  wish  is  known 
To  soothe  and  gladden  with  relief 
An  anguish  not  thine  own : 

Though  heralded  with  nought  of  fear. 
Or  outward  sign,  or  show  : 

Though  only  to  the  inward  ear 
It  whispers  soft  and  low ; 

Though  dropping,  as  the  manna  fell, 
Unseen,  yet  from  above, 

Noiseless  as  dew-fall,  heed  it  well  — 
Thy  Father’s  call  of  love  ! 


MY  SOUL  AND  /. 


3I3 


MY  SOUL  AND  h 

Stand  still,  my  soul,  in  the  silent  dark 
I would  question  thee, 

Alone  in  the  shadow  drear  and  stark 
With  God  and  me  ! 

What,  my  soul,  was  thy  errand  here? 

Was  it  mirth  or  ease, 

Or  heaping  up  dust  from  year  to  year  ? 

“ Nay,  none  of  these ! ” 

Speak,  soul,  aright  in  His  holy  sight 
Whose  eye  looks  still 
And  steadily  on. thee  through  the  night : 

“ To  do  his  will ! ” 

What  hast  thou  done,  oh  soul  of  mine, 

That  thou  tremblest  so?- — 

Hast  thou  wrought  His  task,  and  kept  the  line 
He  bade  thee  go? 

What,  silent  all ! — art  sad  of  cheer  ? 

Art  fearful  now? 

When  God  seemed  far  and  men  were  near 
Kb  v brave  wert  thou? 


314  my  SOUL  AND  7. 

Aha  ! thou  tremblest ! — well  I see 
Thou’rt  craven  grown. 

Is  it  so  hard  with  God  and  me 
To  stand  alone?  — 

Summon  thy  sunshine  bravery  back, 

Oh,  wretched  sprite ! 

Let  me  hear  thy  voice  through  this  deep  and 
black 

Abysmal  night. 

What  hast  thou  wrought  for  Right  and  Truth, 
For  God  and  Man, 

From  the  golden  hours  of  bright-eyed  youth 
To  life’s  mid  span?  * 

Ah,  soul  of  mine,  thy  tones  I hear, 

But  weak  and  low, 

Like  far  sad  murmurs  on  my  ear 
They  come  and  go. 

“ I have  wrestled  stoutly  with  the  Wrong, 

And  borne  the  Right 
From  beneath  the  footfall  of  the  throng 
To  life  and  light. 

“ Wherever  Freedom  shivered  a chain, 

God  speed,  quoth  I ; 

To  Error  amidst  her  shouting  train 
I gave  the  lie.” 


my  Soul  and  l 


3iS 


Ah,  soul  of  mine  ! ah,  soul  of  mine  ! 

Thy  deeds  are  well : 

Were  they  wrought  for  Truth’s  sake  or  for 
thine  ? 

My  soul,  pray  tell. 

“ Of  all  the  work  my  hand  hath  wrought 
Beneath  the  sky, 

Save  a place  in  kindly  human  thought, 

No  gain  have  I.” 

Go  to,  go  to  ! — for  thy  very  self 
Thy  deeds  were  done  : 

Thou  for  fame,  the  miser  for  pelf, 

Your  end  is  one  ! 

And  where  art  thou  going,  soul  of  mine? 

Canst  see  the  end? 

And  whither  this  troubled  life  of  thine 
Evermore  doth  tend? 

What  daunts  thee  now?  — what  shakes  thee  so? 

My  sad  soul  say. 

“ I see  a cloud  like  a curtain  low 
Hang  o’er  my  way. 

“ Whither  I go  I cannot  tell : 

That  cloud  hangs  black, 

High  as  the  heaven  and  deep  as  hell, 

Across  my  track. 


316  my  soul  and  i. 

**  I see  its  shadow  coldly  enwrap 
The  souls  before. 

Sadly  they  enter  it,  step  by  step, 

To  return  no  more. 

**  They  shrink,  they  shudder,  dear  God  ! they 
kneel 

To  thee  in  prayer. 

They  shut  their  eyes  on  the  cloud,  but  feel 
That  it  still  is  there. 

4‘  In  vain  they  turn  from  the  dread  Before 
To  the  Known  and  Gone ; 

For  while  gazing  behind  them  evermore 
Their  feet  glide  on. 

Yet,  at  times,  I see  upon  sweet  pale  faces 
A light  begin 

To  tremble,  as  if  from  holy  places 
And  shrines  within. 

And  at  times  methinks  their  cold  lips  move 
With  hymn  and  prayer, 

As  if  somewhat  of  awe,  but  more  of  love 
And  hope  were  there. 

**  I call  on  the  souls  who  have  left  the  light 
To  reveal  their  lot ; 

I bend  mine  ear  to  that  wall  of  night, 

And  they  answer  not. 


MY  SOUL  AND  /. 


3*7 

“ But  I hear  around  me  sighs  of  pain 
And  the  cry  of  fear,  ® 

And  a sound  like  the  slow  sad  dropping  of  rain. 
Each  drop  a tear  ! 

44  Ah,  the  cloud  is  dark,  and  day  by  day, 

I am  moving  thither : 

I must  pass  beneath  it  on  my  way  — 

God  pity  me  ! — Whither?  ” 

Ah  soul  of  mine  ! so  brave  and  wise 
In  the  life-storm  loud, 

Fronting  so  calmly  all  human  eyes 
In  the  sun-lit  crowd  ! 

Now  standing  apart  with  God  and  me 
Thou  art  weakness  all, 

Gazing  vainly  after  the  things  to  be 
Through  Death’s  dread  wall. 

But  never  for  this,  never  for  this 
Was  thy  being  lent ; 

For  the  craven’s  fear  is  but  selfishness. 

Like  his  merriment. 

Folly  and  Fear  are  sisters  twain : 

One  closing  her  eyes, 

The  other  peopling  the  dark  inane 
With  spectral  lies. 


3 18  MY  SOUL  AND  I. 

Know  well,  my  soul,  God’s  hand  controls 
Whate’er  th<5u  fearest ; 

Round  Him  in  calmest  music  rolls 
Whate’er  thou  hearest. 

What  to  thee  is  shadow,  to  Him  is  day, 

And  the  end  He  knoweth, 

And  not  on  a blind  and  aimless  way 
The  spirit  goeth. 

Man  sees  no  future  — a phantom  show 
Is  alone  before  him  ; 

Past  Time  is  dead,  and  the  grasses  grow. 
And  flowers  bloom  o’er  him. 

Nothing  before,  nothing  -behind  : 

The  steps  of  Faith 

Fall  on  the  seeming  void,  and  find 
The  rock  beneath. 

The  Present,  the  Present  is  all  thou  hast 
For  thy  sure  possessing  ; 

Like  the  patriarch’s  angel  hold  it  fast 
Till  it  gives  its  blessing. 

Why  fear  the  night?  why  shrink  from  Death, 
That  phantom  wan? 

There  is  nothing  in  Heaven  or  earth  beneath 
Save  God  and  man. 


MY  SOUL  AND  L 


3J9 


Peopling  the  shadows  we  turn  from  Him, 

And  from  one  another ; 

All  is  spectral  and  vague  and  dim 
Save  God  and  our  brother ! 

* \. 

Like  warp  and  woof  all  destinies 
Are  woven  fast, 

Linked  in  sympathy  like  the  keys 
Of  an  organ  vast. 

Pluck  one  thread,  and  the  web  ye  mar ; 

Break  but  one 

Of  a thousand  keys,  and  the  paining  jar 
Through  all  will  run. 

Oh,  restless  spirit ! — wherefore  strain 
Beyond  thy  sphere  ? — 

Heaven  and  hell,  with  their  joy  and  pain, 

Are  now  and  here. 

Back}  to  thyself  is  measured  well 
All  thou  hast  given ; 

Thy  neighbor’s  wrong  is  thy  present  hell, 

Hus  bliss  thy  heaven. 

And  in  life,  in  death,  in  dark  and  light, 

All  are  in  God’s  care ; 

Sound  the  black  abyss,  pierce  the  deep  of  night, 
And  He  is  there  ! 


320  MY  SOUL  AND  I. 

All  which  is  real  now  remaineth, 

And  fadeth  never : 

The  hand  which  upholds  it  now,  sustaineth 
The  soul  forever. 

Leaning  on  Him,  make  with  reverent  meekness 
His  own  thy  will, 

And  with  strength  from  Him  shall  thy  utter 
weakness 
Life’s  task  fulfil ; 

And  that  cloud  itself,  which  now  before  thee 
Lies  dark  in  view, 

Shall  with  beams  of  light  from  the  inner  glory 
Be  stricken  through. 


And  like  meadow  mist  through  Autumn’s  dawn 
Uprolling  thin, 

Its  thickest  folds  when  about  thee  drawn 
Let  sunlight  in. 

Then  of  what  is  to  be,  and  of  what  is  done. 
Why  queriest  thou  ? — 

The  past  and  the  time  to  be  are  one, 

And  both  are  now  ! 


$21 


TO  A FRIEND. 


TO  A FRIEND, 

ON  HER  RETURN  FROM  EUROPE. 

How  smiled  the  land  of  France 
Under  thy  blue  eye’s  glance, 
Light-hearted  rover  ! 

Old  walls  of  chateaux  gray, 

Towers  of  an  early  day, 

Which  the  Three  Colors  play 
Flauntingly  over. 

Now  midst  the  brilliant  train 
Thronging  the  banks  of  Seine  : 

Now  midst  the  splendor 
Of  the  wild  Alpine  range, 

Waking  with  change  on  change 
Thoughts  in  thy  young  heart  strange, 
Lovely,  and  tender. 

Vales,  soft  Elysian, 

Like  those  in  the  vision 

Of  Mirza,  when,  dreaming, 

He  saw  the  long  hollow  dell, 
Touched  by  the  prophet’s  spell, 

Into  an  ocean  swell 

With  its  isles  teeming. 


J22 


TO  A FRIEND. 


Cliffs  wrapped  in  snow  of  years* 
Splintering  with  icy  spears 
Autumn’s  blue  heaven : 

Loose  rock  and  frozen  slide, 

Hung  on  the  mountain  side, 
Waiting  their  hour  to  glide 
Downward,  storm-driven ! 

Rhine  stream,  by  castle  old, 
Baron’s  and  robber’s  hold, 
Peacefully  flowing ; 

Sweeping  through  vineyards  green* 
Or  where  the  cliffs  are  seen 
O’er  the  broad  wave  between 
Grim  shadows  throwing. 

Or,  where  St.  Peter’s  dome 
Swells  o’er  eternal  Rome, 

Vast,  dim,  and  solemn,— 
Hymns  ever  chanting  low  — 
Censers  swung  to  and  fro  — 

Sable  stoles  sweeping  slow 
Cornice  and  column ! 

Oh,  as  from  each  and  all 
Will  there  not  voices  call 
Evermore  back  again? 

In  the  mind’s  gallery 
Wilt  thou  not  always  see 


» 


TO  A FRIEND . 


323 

Dim  phantoms  beckon  thee 
O’er  that  old  track  again? 

New  forms  thy  presence  haunt  — 

New  voices  softly  chant  — 

New  faces  greet  thee  ! — 

Pilgrims  from  many  a shrine 
Hallowed  by  poet’s  line, 

At  memory’s  magic  sign, 

Rising  to  meet  thee. 

And  when  such  visions  come 
Unto  thy  olden  home, 

Will  they  not  waken 
Deep  thoughts  of  Him  whose  hand 
Led  thee  o’er  sea  and  land 
Back  to  the  household  band 
Whence  thou  wast  taken  ? 

While,  at  the  sunset  time, 

Swells  the  cathedral’s  chime, 

Yet,  in  thy  dreaming, 

While  to  thy  spirit’s  eye 
Yet  the  vast  mountains  lie 
Piled  in  the  Switzer’s  sky, 

Icy  and  gleaming : 

Prompter  of  silent  prayer, 

Be  the  wild  picture  there 
In  the  mind’s  chamber, 


THE  ANGEL  OE  PATIENCE . 


And,  through  each  coming  day 
Him,  who,  as  staff  and  stay, 
Watched  o’er  thy  wandering  way, 
Freshly  remember. 

So,  when  the  call  shall  be 
Soon  or  late  unto  thee, 

As  to  all  given, 

Still  may  that  picture  live, 

All  its  fair  forms  survive, 

And  to  thy  spirit  give 

Gladness  in  Heaven ! 


THE  ANGEL  OF  PATIENCE. 

A FREE  PARAPHRASE  OF  THE  GERMAN. 

To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes, 
God’s  meekest  Angel  gently  comes  : 

No  power  has  he  to  banish  pain, 

Or  give  us  back  our  lost  again  ; 

And  yet  in  tenderest  love,  our  dear 
And  Heavenly  Father  sends  him  here. 

There’s  quiet  in  that  Angel’s  glance, 
There’s  rest  in  his  still  countenance  ! 


FOLLEN. 


325 


He  mocks  no  grief  with  idle  cheer, 

Nor  wounds  with  words  the  mourner’s  ear; 
But  ills  and  woes  he  may  not  cure 
He  kindly  trains  us  to  endure. 

Angel  of  Patience ! sent  to  calm 
Our  feverish  brows  with  cooling  palm ; 

To  lay  the  storms  of  hope  and  fear, 

And  reconcile  life’s  smile  and  tear ; 

The  throbs  of  wounded  pride  to  still, 

And  make  our  own  our  Father’s  will ! 

Oh  ! thou  who  mournest  on  thy  way, 

With  longings  for  the  close  of  day ; 

He  walks  with  thee,  that  Angel  kind, 

And  gently  whispers  “ Be  resigned  : 

Bear  up,  bear  on,  the  end  shall  tell 
The  dear  Lord  ordereth  all  things  well ! ” 


FOLLEN. 

ON  READING  HIS  ESSAY  ON  THE  “FUTURE 
STATE.” 

Friend  of  my  soul ! — as  with  moist  eye 
I look  up  from  this  page  of  thine, 

Is  it  a dream  that  thou  art  nigh, 

Thy  mild  face  gazing  into  mine  ? 


326 


FOLLEN. 


That  presence  seems  before  me  now* 

A placid  heaven  of  sweet  moonrise, 
When  dew-like,  on  the  earth  below 
Descends  the  quiet  of  the  skies. 

The  calm  brow  through  the  parted  hair, 
The  gentle  lips  which  knew  no  guile, 
Softening  the  blue  eye’s  thoughtful  care 
With  the  bland  beauty  of  their  smile. 

Ah  me  ! — at  times  that  last  dread  scene 
Of  Frost  and  Fire  and  moaning  Sea, 
Will  cast  its  shade  of  doubt  between 
The  failing  eyes  of  Faith  and  thee. 

Yet,  lingering  o’er  thy  charmed  page, 
Where  through  the  twilight  air  of  earthy 
Alike  enthusiast  and  sage, 

Prophet  and  bard,  thou  gazest  forth ; 

Lifting  the  Future’s  solemn  veil ; 

The  reaching  of  a mortal  hand 
To  put  aside  the  cold  and  pale 

Cloud-curtains  of  the  Unseen  Land; 

In  thoughts  which  answer  to  my  own, 

In  words  which  reach  my  inward  ear, 
Like  whispers  from  the  void  Unknown, 

I feel  thy  living  presence  here. 


FOLLEN. 


327 


The  waves  which  lull  thy  body’s  rest, 

The  dust  thy  pilgrim  footsteps  trod, 

Unwasted,  through  each  change,  attest 
The  fixed  economy  of  God. 

Shall  these  poor  elements  outlive 

The  mind  whose  kingly  will  they  wrought? 

Their  gross  unconsciousness  survive 
Thy  Godlike  energy  of  thought? 

Thou  livest,  Follen  ! — not  in  vain 
Hath  thy  fine  spirit  meekly  borne 

The  burden  of  Life’s  cross  of  pain, 

And  the  thorned  crown  of  suffering  worn. 

Oh  ! while  Life’s  solemn  mystery  glooms 
Around  us  like  a dungeon’s  wall  — 

Silent  earth’s  pale  and  crowded  tombs, 

Silent  the  heaven  which  bends  o’er  all ! — - 

While  day  by  day  our  loved  ones  glide 
In  spectral  silence,  hushed  and  lone, 

To  the  cold  shadows  which  divide 
The  living  from  the  dread  Unknown ; 

While  even  on  the  closing  eye, 

And  on  the  lip  which  moves  in  vain, 

The  seals  of  that  stern  mystery 
Their  undiscovered  trust  retain  ; — 


328 


FOLLEN. 


And  only  midst  the  gloom  of  death, 

Its  mournful  doubts  and  haunting  fears, 

Two  pale,  sweet  angels,  Hope  and  Faith, 
Smile  dimly  on  us  through  their  tears ; 

’Tis  something  to  a heart  like  mine 
To  think  of  thee  as  living  yet ; 

To  feel  that  such  a light  as  thine 
Could  not  in  utter  darkness  set. 

Less  dreary  seems  the  untried  way 

Since  thou  hast  left  thy  footprints  there, 

And  beams  of  mournful  beauty  play 
Round  the  sad  Angel's  sable  hair. 

Oh  ! — at  this  hour  when  half  the  sky 
Is  glorious  with  its  evening  light, 

And  fair  broad  fields  of  summer  lie 

Hung  o’er  with  greenness  in  my  sight ; 

While  through  these  elm  boughs  wet  with  rain 
The  sunset’s  golden  walls  are  seen, 

With  clover  bloom  and  yellow  grain 

And  wood-draped  hill  and  stream  between ; 

I long  to  know  if  scenes  like  this 
Are  hidden  from  an  angel’s  eyes ; 

If  earth’s  familiar  loveliness 

Haunts  not  thy  heaven’s  serener  skies. 


FOLLEN. 


329 


For  sweetly  here  upon  thee  grew 
The  lesson  which  that  beauty  gave, 

The  ideal  of  the  Pure  and  True 
In  earth  and  sky  and  gliding  wave. 

And  it  may  be  that  all  which  lends 
The  soul  an  upward  impulse  here, 

With  a diviner  beauty  blends, 

And  greets  us  in  a holier  sphere. 

Through  groves  where  blighting  never  fell 
The  humbler  flowers  of  earth  may  twine ; 

And  simple  draughts  from  childhood’s  well 
Blend  with  the  angel-tasted  wine. 

But  be  the  prying  vision  veiled, 

And  let  the  seeking  lips  be  dumb,  — 

Where  even  seraph  eyes  have  failed 
Shall  mortal  blindness  seek  to  come  ? 

We  only  know  that  thou  hast  gone, 

And  that  the  same  returnless  tide 

Which  bore  thee  from  us  still  glides  on, 
And  we  who  mourn  thee  with  it  glide. 

On  all  thou  lookest  we  shall  look, 

And  to  our  gaze  ere  long  shall  turn 

That  page  of  God’s  mysterious  book 
We  so  much  wish,  yet  dread  to  learn. 


33°  TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

With  Him,  before  whose  awful  power 
Thy  spirit  bent  its  trembling  knee,  — 

Who,  in  the  silent  greeting  flower, 

And  forest  leaf,  looked  out  on  thee,  — 

We  leave  thee,  with  a trust  serene, 

Which  Time,  nor  Change,  nor  Death  can  move, 
While  with  thy  childlike  faith  we  lean 
On  Him  whose  dearest  name  is  Love  ! 


I ■ 

TO  THE 

REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND.77 

God  bless  ye,  brothers  ! — in  the  fight 
Ye’re  waging  now,  ye  cannot  fail, 

For  better  is  your  sense  of  right 
Than  kingcraft’s  triple  mail. 

Than  tyrant’s  law,  or  bigot’s  ban 
More  mighty  is  your  simplest  word ; 

The  free  heart  of  an  honest  man 
Than  crosier  or  the  sword. 

Go  — let  your  bloated  Church  rehearse 
The  lesson  it  has  learned  so  well ; 

It  moves  not  with  its  prayer  or  curse 
The  gates  of  heaven  or  hell. 


TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND . 33 

Let  the  State  scaffold  rise  again  — 

Did  Freedom  die  when  Russell  died? 

Forget  ye  how  the  blood  of  Vane 
From  earth’s  green  bosom  cried? 

The  great  hearts  of  your  olden  time 
Are  beating  with  you,  full  and  strong; 

All  holy  memories  and  sublime 
And  glorious  round  ye  throng. 

The  bluff,  bold  men  of  Runnymede 
Are  with  ye  still  in  times  like  these ; 

The  shades  of  England’s  mighty  dead, 

Your  cloud  of  witnesses  ! 

The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 
By  every  wind  and  every  tide ; , 

The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 
Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have  found 
Are  those  which  Heaven  itself  has  wrought, 

Light,  Truth,  and  Love  ; — your  battle  ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 

No  partial,  selfish  purpose  breaks 
The  simple  beauty  of  your  plan, 

Nor  lie  from  throne  or  altar  shakes 
Your  steady  faith  in  man. 


33 2 TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND, 


The  languid  pulse  of  England  starts 

And  bounds  beneath  your  words  of  power ; 

The  beating  of  her  million  hearts 
Is  with  you  at  this  hour ! 

Oh,  ye  who,  with  undoubting  eyes, 

Through  present  cloud  and  gathering  storm 

Behold  the  span  of  Freedom’s  skies, 

And  sunshine  soft  and  warm,  — 

Press  bravely  onward  ! — not  in  vain 
Your  generous  trust  in  human  kind ; 

The  good  which  bloodshed  could  not  gain 
Your  peaceful  zeal  shall  find. 

Press  on  ! — the  triumph  shall  be  won 
Of  common  rights  and  equal  laws, 

The  glorious  dream  of  Harrington, 

And  Sidney’s  good  old  cause. 

Blessing  the  cotter  and  the  crown, 

Sweetening  worn  Labor’s  bitter  cup ; 

And,  plucking  not  the  highest  down, 

Lifting  the  lowest  up. 

Press  on ! — and  we  who  may  not  share 
The  toil  or  glory  of  your  fight, 

May  ask,  at  least,  in  earnest  prayer, 

God’s  blessing  on  the  right ! 


THE  QUAKER. 


333 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE  OLDEN 
. TIME. 

The  Quaker  of  the  olden  time  !' — 

How  calm  and  firm  and  true, 
Unspotted  by  its  wrong  and  crime, 

He  walked  the  dark  earth  through  ! 
The  lust  of  power,  the  love  of  gain, 

The  thousand  lures  of  sin 
Around  him,  had  no  power  to  stain 
The  purity  within. 

With  that  deep  insight  which  detects 
All  great  things  in  the  small, 

And  knows  how  each  man’s  life  affects 
The  spiritual  life  of  all, 

He  walked  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

By  love  and  not  by  law ; 

The  presence  of  the  wrong  or  right 
He  rather  felt  than  saw. 

He  felt  that  wrong  with  wrong  partakes, 
That  nothing  stands  alone, 

That  whoso  gives  the  motive,  makes 
His  brother’s  sin  his  own. 

And,  pausing  not  for  doubtful  choice 
Of  evils  great  or  small, 


334 


THE  REFORMER . 


He  listened  to  that  inward  voice 
Which  called  away  from  all. 

Oh ! Spirit  of  that  early  day, 

So  pure  and  strong  and  true, 

Be  with  us  in  the  narrow  way 
Our  faithful  fathers  knew. 

Give  strength  the  evil  to  forsake, 
The  cross  of  Truth  to  bear, 

And  love  and  reverent  fear  to  make 
Our  daily  lives  a prayer ! 


THE  REFORMER. 

All  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan, 
I saw  a Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 

The  Church  beneath  her  trembling  dome 
Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm  : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  fled 
Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in : 

Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o’er  her  head 
To  drown  the  din. 


THE  REFORMER. 


335  * 


“ Spare,”  Art  implored,  “ yon  holy  pile  ; 
That  grand,  old,  time-worn  turret  spare ; ” 

Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 

Cried  out,  “ Forbear  !” 

Gray-bearded  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 
Groped  for  his  old  accustomed  stone, 

Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept,  to  find 
His  seat  o’erthrown. 

Young  Romance  raised  his  dreamy  eyes, 
O’erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold  : 

“ Why  smite,”  he  asked  in  sad  surprise, 

“ The  fair,  the  old  ?” 

Yet  louder  rang  the  Strong  One’s  stroke, 

Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe’s  gleam  ; 

Shuddering  and  sick  of  heart  I woke, 

As  from  a dream. 

I looked:  aside  the  dust  cloud  rolled  — 

The  Waster  seemed  the  Builder  too ; 

Up  springing  from  the  ruined  Old 
I saw  the  New. 

’Twas  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad  — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill ; 

Whate’er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still. 


336 


THE  REFORMER. 


Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I feared ; 

The  frown  which  awed  me  passed  away, 

And  left  behind  a smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 

O’er  swarded  war-mounds  grazed  the  cow ; 

The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains 
The  spade  and  plough. 

Where  frowned  the  fort,  pavilions  gay 
And  cottage  windows,  flower-entwined 

Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 

Through  vine-wreathed  cups  with  wine  once  red, 
The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 

Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like  Heaven-sent  hope, 
Fresh  breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams  strayed, 

And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 

The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 
Had  counted  o’er  the  weary  hours, 

Glad  school-girls,  answering  to  the  bell, 

Came  crowned  with  flowers. 


THE  REFORMER. 


Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I fear  no  longer,  for  I know 

That,  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven, 
The  best  fruits  grow. 

The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 

The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 
Of  wrong  alone  — 

These  wait  their  doom,  from  that  great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve  to-day ; 

And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 

Oh  ! backward-looking  son  of  time  ! — 

The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 

The  cycle  of  a change  sublime 
Still  sweeping  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer ; 
Destroying  Seva,  forming  Brahm, 

Who  wake  by  turns  Earth’s  love  and  fear, 
Are  one,  -the  same. 

As  idly  as,  in  that  old  day, 

Thou  mournest,  did  thy  sires  repine, 

So,  in  his  time,  thy  child  grown  gray, 

Shall  sigh  for  thine. 


33s  the  prisoner  for  debt. 


Yet,  not  the  less  for  them  or  thou 
The  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 
To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow, 
Which  God  repeats ! 

Take  heart ! — the  Waster  builds  again  — 
A charmed  life  old  goodness  hath ; 

The  tares  may  perish — but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things  ; all  obey 
His  first  propulsion  from  the  night : 

Ho,  wake  and  watch  ! — the  world  is  gray 
With  morning  light ! 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 

Look  on  him  ! — through  his  dungeon  grate 
Feebly  and  cold,  the  morning  light 
Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and  late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 

Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 

His  hand  upholds  his  drooping  head  — 

His  bloodless  cheek  is  seamed  and  hard, 
Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard ; 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT  339 

And  o’er  his  bony  fingers  flow 
His  long,  dishevelled  locks  of  snow. 

No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, 

And  yet  the  winter’s  breath  is  chill ; 

And  o’er  his  half-clad  person  goes 
The  frequent  ague  thrill ! 

Silent,  save  ever  and  anon, 

A sound,  half  murmur  and  half  groan, 

Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 
Of  the  old  sufferer’s  bearded  lip  ; 

O sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 
Of  old  age  chained  and  desolate  ! 

Just  God  ! why  lies  that  old  man  there? 

A murderer  shares  his  prison  bed, 

Whose  eye-balls,  through  his  horrid  hair, 
Gleam  on  him,  fierce  and  red ; 

And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 

And,  or  in  wakefulness  or  sleep, 

Nerve,  flesh,  and  pulses  thrill  and  creep 
Whene’er  that  ruffian’s  tossing  limb, 

Crimson  with  murder,  touches  him  ! 

What  has  the  gray-haired  prisoner  done? 

Has  murder  stained  his  hands  with  gore  ? 
Not  so ; his  crime’s  a fouler  one  ; 

God  made  the  old  man  poor  ! 

For  this  he  shares  a felon’s  cell  — 


340  THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT \ 


'The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell ! 

For  this,  the  boon  for  which  he  poured 
His  young  blood  on  the  invader’s  sword, 
And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost  — 

His  blood-gained  liberty  is  lost] 

And  so,  for  such  a place  of  rest, 

Old  prisoner,  dropped  thy  blood  as  rain 
On  Concord’s  field,  and  Bunker’s  crest, 
And  Saratoga’s  plain  ? 

Look  forth,  thou  man  of  many  scars, 
Through  thy  dim  dungeon’s  iron  bars ; 

It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see 
Yon  monument  upreared  to  thee  — 

Piled  granite  and  a prison  cell  — 

The  land  repays  thy  service  well ! 

Go,  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 

And  fling  the  starry  banner  out ; 

Shout  “ Freedom  ! ” till  your  lisping  ones 
Give  back  their  cradle-shout : 

Let  boastful  eloquence  declaim 
Of  honor,  liberty,  and  fame  ; 

Still  let  the  poet’s  strain  be  heard, 

With  glory  for  each  second  word, 

And  everything  with  breath  agree 
To  praise  “ our  glorious  liberty ! ” 

But  when  the  patriot  cannon  jars 
That  prison’s  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT  341 


And  through  its  grates  the  stripes  and  stars 
Rise  on  the  wind  ^nd  fall  — 

Think  ye  that  prisoner’s  aged  ear 
Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer? 

Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 
Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry? 

Sorrowing  of  soul,  and  chained  of  limb, 
What  is  your  carnival  to  him  ? 

Down  with  the  law  that  binds  him  thus ! 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 
Of  God  and  human  kind  ! 

Open  the  prison’s  living  tomb, 

And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code, 

To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  God ; 

No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The  chastening  of  the  Almighty’s  hand. 


342 


LINES . 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  READING  SEVERAL  PAMPHLETS  PUB- 
LISHED BY  CLERGYMEN  AGAINST  THE  ABOLI- 
TION OF  THE  GALLOWS. 

I. 

The  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have  shone 
Since  the  Redeemer  walked  with  man,  and 
made 

The  fisher’s  boat,  the  cavern’s  floor  of  stone, 
And  mountain  moss,  a pillow  for  his  head ; 
And  He,  who  wandered  with  the  peasant  Jew, 
And  broke  with  publicans  the  bread  of  shame, 
And  drank,  with  blessings  in  His  Father’s 
name, 

The  water  which  Samaria’s  outcast  drew, 

Hath  now  His  temples  upon  every  shore, 

Altar  and  shrine  and  priest,  — and  incense 
dim 

Evermore  rising,  with  low  prayer  and  hymn, 
From  lips  which  press  the  temple’s  marble  floor, 
Or  kiss  the  gilded  sign  of  the  dread  Cross  He 
bore ! 


LINES. 


343 


ii. 

Yet  as  of  old,  when,  meekly  “ doing  good,” 

He  fed  a blind  and  selfish  multitude, 

And  even  the  poor  companions  of  His  lot 
With  their  dim  earthly  vision  knew  Him  not, 
How  ill  are  His  high  teachings  understood ! 
Where  He  hath  spoken  Liberty,  the  priest 
At.  His  own  altar  binds  the  chain  anew ; 
Where  He  hath  bidden  to  Life’s  equal  feast, 

The  starving  many  wait  upon  the  few ; 

Where  He  hath  spoken  Peace,  His  name  hath 
been 

The  loudest  war-cry  of  contending  men ; 

Priests,  pale  with  vigils,  in  His  name  have 
blessed 

The  unsheathed  sword,  and  laid  the  spear  in 
rest, 

Wet  the  war-banner  with  their  sacred  wine, 

And  crossed  its  blazon  with  the  holy  sign ; 

Yea,  in  His  name  who  bade  the  erring  live, 

And  daily  taught  His  lesson  — to  forgive  ! — 
Twisted  the  cord  and  edged  the  murderous 
steel ; 

And,  with  His  words  of  mercy  on  their  lips, 
Hung  gloating  o’er  the  pincer’s  burning  grips, 
And  fhe  grim  horror  of  the  straining  wheel ; 
Fed  the  slow  flame  which  gnawed  the  victim’s 
limb, 


344 


LINES. 


Who  saw  before  his  searing  eye-balls  swim 
The  image  of  their  Christ,  in  cruel  zeal, 
Through  the  black  torment-smoke,  held  mock- 
ingly to  him  ! 

• % 

ill. 

The  blood  which  mingle,d  with  the  desert  sand. 
And  beaded  with  its  red  and  ghastly  dew# 

The  vines  and  olives  of  the  Holy  Land  — 

The  shrieking  curses  of  the  hunted  Jew  — 
The  white-sown  bones  of  heretics,  where’er 
They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade’s  holy  spear  — 
Goa’s  dark  dungeons  — Malta’s  sea-washed  cell. 
Where  with  the  hymns  the  ghostly  fathers  sung 
Mingled  the  groans  by  subtle  torture  wrung, 
Heaven’s  anthem  blending  with  the  shriek  of 
hell ! 

The  midnight  of  Bartholomew  — the  stake 
Of  Smithfield,  and  that  thrice-accurs&d  flame 
Which  Calvin  kindled  by  Geneva’s  lake  — 

New  England’s  scaffold,  and  the  priestly  sneer 
Which  mocked  its  victims  in  that  hour  of  fear, 
When  guilt  itself  a human  tear  might  claim,  — 
Bear  witness,  O Thou  wronged  and  merciful 
One  ! 

That  Earth’s  most  hateful  crimes  have  tn  Thy 
name  been  done ! 


LINES. 


345 


IV. 

Thank  God ! that  I have  lived  to  see  the  time 
When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last  to  find 
An  utterance  from  the  deep  heart  of  mankind, 
Earnest  and  clear,  that  all  Revenge  is  Crime  ! 
That  man  is  holier  than  a creed,  — that  all 
Restraint  upon  him  must  consult  his  good, 
Hope’s  sunshine  linger  on  his  prison  wall, 

And  Love  look  in  upon  his  solitude. 

The  beautiful  lesson  which  our  Saviour  taught 
Through  long,  dark  centuries  its  way  hath 
wrought 

Into  the  common  mind  and  popular  thought; 
And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee’s  lake  shore 
The  humble  fishers  listened  with  hushed  oar, 
Have  found  an  echo  in  the  general  heart, 

And  of  the  public  faith  become  a living  part. 

v. 

Who  shall  arrest  this  tendency?  — Bring  back 
The  cells  of  Venice  and  the  bigot’s  rack? 
Harden  the  softening  human  heart  again 
To  cold  indifference  to  a brother’s  pain? 

Ye  most  unhappy  men  ! — who,  turned  away 
From  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  Gospel  day, 
Grope  in  the  shadows  of  Man’s  twilight  time, 
What  mean  ye,  that  with  ghoul-like  zest  ye 
brood 


346 


LINES. 


O’er  those  roul  altars  streaming  with  warm  blood. 
Permitted  in  another  age  and  clime  ? 

Why  cite  that  law  with  which  the  bigot  Jew 
Rebuked  the  Pagan’s  mercy,  when  he  knew 
No  evil  in  the  Just  One?  — Wherefore  turn 
To  the  dark  cruel  past?  — Can  ye  not  learn 
From  the  pure  Teacher’s  life,  how  mildly  free 
Is  the  great  Gospel  of  Humanity? 

The  Flamen’s  knife  is  bloodless,  and  no  more 
Mexitli’s  altars  soak  with  human  gore, 

No  more  the  ghastly  sacrifices  smoke 
Through  the  green  arches  of  the  Druid’s  oak ; 
And  ye  of  milder  faith,  with  your  high  claim 
Of  prophet-utterance  in  the  Holiest  name. 

Will  ye  become  the  Druids  of  our  time? 

Set  up  your  scaffold-altars  in  our  land, 

And,  consecrators  of  Law’s  darkest  crime, 

Urge  to  its  loathsome  work  the  hangman’s 
hand? 

Beware  — lest  human  nature,  roused  at  last, 
From  its  peeled  shoulder  your  incumbrance  cast, 
And,  sick  to  loathing  of  your  cry  for  blood, 
Rank  ye  with  those  who  led  their  victims  round 
The  Celt’s  red  altar  and  the  Indian’s  mound, 
Abhorred  of  Earth  and  Heaven  — a pagan 
brotherhood ! 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  347 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.78 

i. 

Far  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell, 

By  grassy  lane  and  sunny  stream, 

Blown  clover  field  and  strawberry  dell, 

And  green  and  meadow  freshness,  fell 
The  footsteps  of  his  dream. 

Again  from  careless  feet  the  dew 
Of  summer’s  misty  morn  he  shook ; 
Again  with  merry  heart  he  threw 
His  light  line  in  the  rippling  brook. 

Back  crowded  all  his  school-day  joys  — 

He  urged  the  ball  and  quoit  again, 

And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 
Come  ringing  down  the  walnut  glen. 
Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze, 

With  scent  of  flowers  and  crisping  hay ; 
And  down  again  through  wind-stirred  trees 
He  saw  the  quivering  sunlight  play. 

An  angel  in  home’s  vine-hung  door, 

He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more ; 

Once  more  the  truant’s  brown-locked  head 
Upon  his  mother’s  knee  was  laid, 

And  sweetly  lulled  to  slumber  there, 

With  evening’s  holy  hymn  and  prayer ! 


34-8  THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE, 


II. 

He  woke.  At  once  on  heart  and  brain 
The  present  Terror  rushed  again  — 

Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon’s  chain ! 

He  woke,  to  hear  the  church-tower  tell 
Time’s  footfall  on  the  conscious  bell, 

And,  shuddering,  feel  that  clanging  din 
His  life’s  last  hour  had  ushered  in ; 

To  see  within  his  prison-yard, 

Through  the  small  window,  iron  barred, 

The  gallows  shadow  rising  dim 
Between  the  sunrise  heaven  and  him,  —• 

A horror  in  God’s  blessed  air  — 

A blackness  in  .His  morning  light  — 

Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 
Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 

And,  maddened  by  that  evil  sight, 

Dark,  horrible,  confused,  and  strange, 

A chaos  of  wild,  weltering  change, 

All  power  of  check  and  guidance  gone, 

Dizzy  and  blind,  his  mind  swept  on. 

In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  a prayer, 

In  vain  he  turned  the  Holy  Book, 

He  only  heard  the  gallows-stair 

Creak  as  the  wind  its  timbers  shook. 

No  dream  for  him  of  sin  forgiven, 

While  still  that  baleful  spectre  stood, 

With  its  hoarse  murmur,  “ Blood  for  Blood  /” 
Between  him  and  the  pitying  Heaven ! 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  349 


III. 

Low  on  his  dungeon  floor  he  knelt, 

And  smote  his  breast,  and  on  his  chain, 
Whose  iron  clasp  he  always  felt, 

His  hot  tears  fell  like  rain ; 

And  near  him,  with  the  cold,  calm  look 
And  tone  of  one  whose  formal  part. 
Unwarmed,  unsoftened  of  the  heart. 

Is  measured  out  by  rule  and  book, 

With  placid  lip  and  tranquil  blood, 

The  hangman’s  ghostly  ally  stood, 
Blessing  with  solemn  text  and  word 
The  gallows-drop  and  strangling  cord  • 
Lending  the  sacred  Gospel’s  awe 
And  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 


IV. 

He  saw  the  victim’s  tortured  brow  — 

The  sweat  of  anguish  starting  there  — - 
The  record  of  a ^nameless  woe 
In  the  dim  eye’s  imploring  stare, 

Seen  hideous  through  the  long,  damp  hair — 
Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 
Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone  ! — 

And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 
From  heaving  breast  and  stiffened  tongue. 
The  choking  sob  and  low  hoarse  prayer ; 


35° 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE. 


As  o’er  his  half-crazed  fancy  came 
A vision  of  the  eternal  flame  — 

Its  smoking  cloud  of  agonies  — 

Its  demon-worm  that  never  dies  — 

The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 
Of  fire-waves  round  the  infernal  wall ; 

While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood, 

Black,  giant-like,  the  gallows  stood : 

Two  busy  fiends  attending  there ; 

One  with  cold  mocking  rite  and  prayer, 

The  other,  with  impatient  grasp, 

Tightening  the  death-rope’s  strangling  clasp 


v. 

The  unfelt  rite  at  length  was  done  — 

The  prayer  unheard  at  length  was  said  — 
An  hour  had  passed  : — the  noon-day  sun 
Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead  ! 

And  he  who  stood  the  doomed  beside, 

Calm  gauger  of  the  swelling  tide 
Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 

Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 
Whate’er  revealed  the  keen  excess 
Of  man’s  extremest  wretchedness  : 

And  who  in  that  dark  anguish  saw 
An  earnest  of  the  victim’s  fate, 

The  vengeful  terrors  of  God’s  law, 

The  kindlings  of  Eternal  hate  — 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  35 1 


The  first  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 

Which  beats  the  dark  red  realm  of  pain,  — 

Did  he  uplift  his  earnest  cries 

Against  the  crime  of  Law,  which  gave 
His  brother  to  that  fearful  grave, 
Whereon  Hope’s  moonlight  never  lies, 

And  Faith’s  white  blossoms  never  wave 
To  the  soft  breath  of  Memory’s  sighs  ; — 
Which  sent  a spirit  marred  and  stained. 

By  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 

In  madness  and  in  blindness  stark, 

Into  the  silent,  unknown  dark  ? 

No  — from  the  wild  and  shrinking  dread 
With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 
Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  divides 
Ever  the  living  from  the  dead, 

And  Nature’s  solemn  secret  hides, 

The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 
New  reasons  for  his  bloody  law  ; 

New  faith  in  staying  Murder’s  hand 
By  murder  at  that  Law’s  command ; 

New  reverence  for  the  gallows-rope, 

As  human  nature’s  latest  hope  ; 

Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time, 

When  Power  found  license  for  its  crime, 
And  held  a writhing  world  in  check 
By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck  ; 

Stifled  Sedition’s  rising  shout, 

Choked  the  young  breath  of  Freedom  out, 


352  THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE. 


And  timely  checked  the  words  which  sprung 
From  Heresy’s  forbidden  tongue; 

While  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound, 

The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 
Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan, 

The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 

Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 

But  by  the  Bible  and  the  Cord  ! 


VI. 

Oh,  Thou  ! at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
.Back  to  warm  life  its  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glance 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 

And  waking,  saw  with  joy  above, 

A brother’s  face  of  tenderest  love ; 
Thou,  unto  whom  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin-sick  came. 
And  from  thy  very  garment’s  hem 
Drew  life  and  healing  unto  them, 

The  burden  of  Thy  holy  faith 
Was  love  and  life,  not  hate  and  death, 
Man’s  demon  ministers  of  pain, 

The  fiends  of  his  revenge  were  sent 
From  Thy  pure  Gospel’s  element 
To  their  dark  home  again. 

Thy  name  is  Love ! What,  then,  is  he. 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE . 


Who  in  that  name  the  gallows  rears, 

An  awful  altar  built  to  Thee, 

With  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears  ? 

Oh,  once  again  Thy  healing  lay 

On  the  blind  eyes  which  know  Thee  not 
And  let  the  light  of  Thy  pure  day 
Melt  in  upon  his  darkened  thought. 
Soften  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 
The  power  which  in  forbearance  lies, 
And  let  him  feel  that  mercy  now 
Is  better  than  old  sacrifice  ! 


VII. 

As  on  the  White  Sea’s 79  charmed  shore, 
The  Parsee  sees  his  holy  hill 
With  dunnest  smoke-clouds  curtained  o’er, 
Yet  knows  beneath  them,  evermore, 

The  low,  pale  fire  is  quivering  still ; 

So  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin, 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
Gleams  of  it§  holy  origin ; 

And  half-quenched  stars  that  never  set, 
Dim  colors  of  its  faded  bow, 

And  early  beauty,  linger  there, 

And  o’er  its  wasted  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air. 

Oh  ! never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin-stained,  but  priceless  soul, 

Hath  Heaven  inscribed  “ Despair  ! ” 


354  RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE . 


Cast  not  the 'clouded  gem  away, 

Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray  — 

My  brother  man,  Beware  ! 

With  that  deep  voice  which  from  the  skies 
Forbade  the  Patriarch’s  sacrifice, 

God’s  angel  cries,  Forbear  ! 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE. 

Oh,  Mother  Earth  ! upon  thy  lap 
Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 

And  o’er  them,  silent  as  a dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 

Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 
That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 

And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 
Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 
And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning ; 

Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 
Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 

Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 
Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 

And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 
Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 


“ In  vain  lie  strove  to  breathe  a prayer, 
In  vain  he  turned  the  Holy  Book.” 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE. 


There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 
He  heard  Potomac’s  flowing, 

And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 
Saw  Autumn’s  sunset  glowing, 

He  sleeps  — still  looking  to  the  West, 
Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 

As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 
Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune!  — in  himself 
All  moods  of  mind  contrasting  — 

The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The  scorn  like  lightning  blasting ; 

The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 
Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 

The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 
Of  hatred  scarcely  human  ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a diamond  shower, 
From  lips  of  lifelong  sadness ; 

Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 
Upon  a ground  of  madness  ; 

And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 
A classic  beauty  throwing, 

And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 
Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him  : each  in  turn 
Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 


3S6  RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE . 


As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 
And  spectral  finger  pointed. 

Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 
With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 

And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 
The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 
A love  he  never  cherished, 

Beyond  Virginia’s  border  line 
His  patriotism  perished. 

While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 
Our  eagle’s  dusky  pinion, 

He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 
Stoop  o’er  his  Old  Dominion  ! 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune  strange, 
Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 

His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 
Knew  never  shade  of  turning ; 

By  Britain’s  lakes,  by  Neva’s  wave, 

Whatever  sky  was  o’er  him, 

He  heard  her  rivers’  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 
No  false  and  vain  pretences, 

Nor  paid  a lying  priest  to  seek 
For  scriptural  defences. 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE . 3S7 


His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning. 

Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 
That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves : yet  kept  the  while 
His  reverence  for  the  Human ; 

In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 
He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman  ! 

No  hunter  of  God’s  outraged  poor 
His  Roanoke  valley  entered ; 

No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 
Across  his  threshold  ventured.80 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 
Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 

And  at  his  side,  a slave  no  more, 

His  brother  man  stood  weeping, 

His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom’s  duty  giving, 

With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 
The  dying  blest  the  living. 

Oh ! never  bore  his  ancient  State 
A truer  son  or  braver ! 

None  trampling  with  a calmer  scorn 
On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 

He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 
His  proud  and  manly  feeling 


358  RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE . 


To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 
Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 
The  plague-spot  o’er  her  spreading, 

None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 
Along  her  future  treading. 

For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 

He  traced  with  dying  hand  “ Remorse  ! ” 81 
And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 

From  Vernon’s  weeping  willow, 

And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 
The  Sage  of  Monticello, 

So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 
Of  Randolph’s  lowly  dwelling, 

Virginia ! o’er  thy  land  of  slaves 
A warning  voice  is  swelling ! 

And  hark  ! from  thy  deserted  fields 
Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 

From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy  exiled  sons 
Their  household  gods  have  broken. 

The  curse  is  on  thee  — wolves  for  men, 

And  briars  for  corn-sheaves  giving ! 

Oh  ! more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 
Were  now  one  hero  living ! 


DEMOCRACY. 


359 


DEMOCRACY. 

ELECTION  DAY,  1 843 

All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to 

you,  do  ye  even  so  to  them.”  — Matthew  vii.  12. 

Bearer  of  Freedom’s  holy  light, 

Breaker  of  Slavery’s  chain  and  rod, 

The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  light, 

Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  God  ! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown ; 

And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 
Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred  — though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride ; 

And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are  wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 

O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood’s  time  ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 

Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood ! 


360 


DEMOCRACY. 


Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 

For  through  the  mists  which  darken  there, 

I see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn — - 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot’s  prayer  ! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 

Which  owns  the  rights  of  all  divine  — 

The  pitying  heart  — the  helping  arm  — 

The  prompt  self-sacrifice  — are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 

How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth  ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth  ! 

Still  to  a stricken  brother  true, 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him ; 

As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  see’st  a Man 

In  prince  or  peasant — slave  or  lord  — 

Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,  or  name, 
Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 

Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 

Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 


DEMOCRACY. 


361 


On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe’er  debased,  and  soiled,  and  dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set  — 

The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 

The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  His  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 
Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 

He  who  of  old  on  Syria’s  mount 

Thrilled,  warmed,  by  turns,  the  listener’s  heart. 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to  know,? 

Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high  — 

Thy  mission  to  a world  of  woe. 

That  voice’s  echo  hath  not  died  ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 

And  Tabor’s  lonely  mountain  side, 

It  calls  a struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 
I hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs. 

And  round  a thousand  altars  stand 
Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 


36  2 


TO  RONGE, 


Not  to  these  altars  of  a day, 

At  party’s  call,  my  gift  I bring; 

But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I lay 
A freeman’s  dearest  offering  : — 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will  — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to.  Truth, 
That  manhood’s  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 


TO  RONGE. 

Strike  home,  strong-hearted  man ! Down  to 
the  root 

Of  old  oppression  sink  the  Saxon  steel. 

Thy  work  is  to  hew  down.  In  God’s  name  then 
Put  nerve  into  thy  task.  Let  other  men 
Plant,  as  they  may,  that  better  tree,  whose 
fruit 

The  wounded  bosom  of  the  Church  shall  heal. 
Be  thou  the  image-breaker.  Let  thy  blows 
Fall  heavy  as  the  Suabian’s  iron  hand, 

On  crown  or  crosier,  which  shall  interpose 
Between  thee  and  the  weal  of  Father-land. 
Leave  creeds  to  closet  idlers.  First  of  all, 
Shake  thou  all  German  dreamland  with  the  fall 


TO  RONGE. 


363 


Of  that  accursed  tree,  whose  evil  trunk 
Was  spared  of  old  by  Erfurt’s  stalwart  monk. 
Fight  not  with  ghosts  and  shadows.  Let  us 
hear 

The  snap  of  chain-links.  Let  our  gladdened 
ear 

Catch  the  pale  prisoner’s  welcome,  as  the  light 
Follows  thy  axe-stroke,  through  his  cell  of 
night. 

Be  faithful  to  both  worlds  ; nor  think  to  feed 
Earth’s  starving  millions . with  the  husks  of 
creed. 

Servant  of  Him  whose  mission  high  and  holy 
Was  to  the  wronged,  the  sorrowing,  and  the 
lowly, 

Thrust  not  His  Eden  promise  from  our  sphere, 
Distant  and  dim  beyond  the  blue  sky’s  span ; 
Like  him  of  Patmos,  see  it,  now  and  here,  — 
The  New  Jerusalem  comes  down  to  man  ! 

Be  warned  by  Luther’s  error.  Nor  like  him, 
When  the  roused  Teuton  dashes  from  his  limb 
The  rusted  chain  of  ages,  help  to  bind 
His  hands,  for  whom  thou  claim’st  the  freedom 
of  the  mind ! 


364 


CHALKLEY  HALL. 


CHALKLEY  HALL.82 

How  bland  and  sweet  the  greeting  of  this 
breeze 

To  him  who  flies 

From  crowded  street  and  red  wall’s  weary  gleam, 
Till  far  behind  him  like  a hideous  dream 
The  close  dark  city  lies ! — 

Here,  while  the  market  murmurs,  while  men 
throng 

The  marble  floor 

Of  Mammon’s  altar,  from  the  crush  and  din 
Of  the  world’s  madness  let  me  gather  in 
My  better  thoughts  once  more. 

Oh  ! once  again  revive,  while  on  my  ear 
The  cry  of  Gain 

And  low  hoarse  hum  of  Traffic  dies  away, 

Ye  blessed  memories  of  my  early  day 
Like  sere  grass  wet  with  rain  ! — 

Once  more  let  God’s  green  earth  and  sunset  air 
Old  feelings  waken ; 

Through  weary  years  of  toil  and  strife  and  ill, 
Oh,  let  me  feel  that  my  good  angel  still 
Hath  not  his  trust  forsaken. 


CHALKLEY  HALL. 


365 


And  well  do  time  . and  place  befit  my  mood  : 
Beneath  the  arms 

Of  this  embracing  wood,  a good  man  made 
His  home,  like  Abraham  resting  in  the  shade 
Of  Mamre’s  lonely  palms. 

Here,  rich  with  autumn  gifts  of  countless  years, 
The  virgin  soil 

Turned  from  the  share  he  guided,  and  in  rain 
And  summer  sunshine  throve  the  fruits  and 
grain 

Which  blessed  his  honest  toil. 

Here,  from  his  voyages  on  the  stormy  seas, 
Weary  and  worn, 

He  came  to  meet  his  children,  and  to  bless 
The  Giver  of  all  good  in  thankfulness 
And  praise  for  his  return. 

And  here  his  neighbors  gathered  in  to  greet 
Their  friend  again, 

Safe  from  the  wave  and  the  destroying  gales, 
Which  reap  untimely  green  Bermuda’s  vales, 
And  vex  the  Carrib  main. 

To  hear  the  good  man  tell  of  simple  truth, 
Sown  in  an  hour 

Of  weakness  in  some  far-off  Indian  isle, 

From  the  parched  bosom  of  a barren  soil, 
Raised  up  in  life  and  power : 


366  CHALKLEY  HALL. 

How  at  those  gatherings  in  Barbadian  vales, 

A tendering  love 

Came  o’er  him,  like  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven. 

And  words  of  fitness  to  his  lips  were  given, 

And  strength  as  from  above  : 

How  the  sad  captive  listened  to  the  Word, 

Until  his  chain 

Grew  lighter,  and  his  wounded  spirit  felt 

The  healing  balm  of  consolation  melt 
Upon  its  lifelong  pain  : 

How  the  armed  warrior  sate  him  down  to  hear 
Of  Peace  and  Truth, 

And  the  proud  ruler  and  his  Creole  dame, 

Jewelled  and  gorgeous  in  her  beauty  came, 

And  fair  and  bright-eyed  youth. 

Oh,  far  away  beneath  New  England’s  sky, 

Even  when  a boy, 

Following  my  plough  by  Merrimack’s  green 
shore, 

His  simple  record  I have  pondered  o’er 
With  deep  and  quiet  joy. 

And  hence  this  scene,  in  sunset  glory  warm  — 
Its  woods  around, 

Its  still  stream  winding  on  in  light  and  shade, 

Its  soft,  green  meadows  and  its  upland  glade  — 
To  me  is  holy  ground. 


TO  JOHN  PIER  PONT.  367 

And  dearer  far  than  haunts  where  Genius  keeps 
His  vigils  still ; 

Than  that  where  Avon’s  son  of  song  is  laid, 

Or  Vaucluse  hallowed  by  its  Petrarch’s  shade. 
Or  Virgil’s  laurelled  hill. 

To  the  gray  walls  of  fallen  Paraclete, 

To  Juliet’s  urn, 

Fair  Arno  and  Sorrento’s  orange  grove, 

Where  Tasso  sang,  let  young  Romance  and 
Love 

Like  brother  pilgrims  turn. 

But  here  a deeper  and  serener  charm 
To  all  is  given ; 

And  blessed  memories  of  the  faithful  dead 
O’er  wood  and  vale  and  meadow-stream  have 
shed 

The  holy  hues  of  Heaven ! 


TO  JOHN  P1ERPONT. 

Not  as  a poor  requital  of  the  joy 

With  which  my  childhood  heard  that  lay  of 
thine, 

Which,  like  an  echo  of  the  song  divine 
At  Bethlehem  breathed  above  the  Holy  Boy, 


368  THE  CYPRESS  TREE  OF  CEYLON. 

Bore  to  my  ears  the  airs  of  Palestine,  — 

Not  to  the  poet,  but  the  man  I bring 
In  friendship’s  fearless  trust  my  offering : 

How  much  it  lacks  I feel,  and  thou  wilt  see, 

Yet  well  I know  that  thou  hast  deemed  with  me 
Life  all  too  earnest,  and  its  time  too  short 
For  dreamy  ease  and  Fancy’s  graceful  sport ; 

And  girded  for  thy  constant  strife  with  wrong, 
Like  Nehemiah  fighting  while  he  wrought 

The  broken  walls  of  Zion,  even  thy  song 
Hath  a rude  martial  tone,  a blow  in  every 
thought ! 


THE  CYPRESS  TREE  OF  CEYLONe 

They  sat  in  silent  watchfulness 
The  sacred  cypress  tree  about,83 
And,  from  beneath  old  wrinkled  brows 
Their  failing  eyes  looked  out. 

Gray  Age  and  Sickness  waiting  there 

Through  weary  night  and  lingering  day  — 
Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  above 

The  song  of  Ceylon’s  birds  was  sweet ; 


THE  CYPRESS  TREE  OF  CEYLON.  369 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flowers 
Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet. 

O’er  them  the  tropic  night-storm  swept, 

The  thunder  crashed  on  rock  and  hill ; 

The  cloud-fire  on  their  eyeballs  blazed, 

Yet  there  they  waited  still! 

What  was  the  world  without  to  them  ? 

The  Moslem’s  sunset-call  — the  dance 

Of  Ceylon’s  maids  — the  passing  gleam 
Of  battle-flag  and  lance? 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf, 

Of  which  the  wandering  Jogees  sing: 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 

Oh  ! — if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 
In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 

O’er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 
A youthful  freshness  steal ; 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  Tree, 

Whose  healing  leaves  of  life  are  shed 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer 
Upon  the  waiting  head  : 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 

And  build  the  spirit’s  broken  shrine. 


370  THE  CYPRESS  TREE  OF  CEYLON. 

But,  on  the  fainting  soul  to  shed 
A light  and  life  divine  : 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch, 

And  murmur  at  the  long  delay? 

Impatient  of  our  Father’s  time 
And  His  appointed  way? 

Or,  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian’s  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher’s  ear 
Their  powerless  murmurs  die  ? 

Alas  ! a deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison  cell  or  martyr’s  stake, 

The  self-abasing  watchfulness 
Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 

We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 
Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong : 

And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 
Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

Easier  to  smite  with  Peter’s  sword, 

Than  “ watch  one  hour”  in  humbling  prayer : 

Life’s  “ great  things,”  like  the  Syrian  lord 
Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

But  oh  ! we  shrink  from  Jordan’s  side, 

From  waters  which  alone  can  save : 


A BREAM  OF  SUMMER. 


371 


And  murmur  for  Abana’s  banks 
And  Pharpar’s  brighter  wave. 

Oh,  Thou,  who  in  the  garden’s  shade 
Didst  wake  Thy  weary  ones  again, 
Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour 
Forgetful  of  thy  pain ; 

Bend  o’er  us  now,  as  over  them, 

And  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free, 
Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee  ! 


A DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 

4TH  1ST  MONTH,  1 847. 

Bland  as  the  morning  breath  of  June 
The  south-west  breezes  play ; 

And,  through  its  haze,  the  winter  noon 
Seems  warm  as  summer’s  day. 

The  snow-plumed  Angel  of  the  North 
Has  dropped  his  icy  spear ; 

Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth, 
Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

The  fox  his  hillside  cell  forsakes, 

The  muskrat  leaves  his  nook, 


372  A DREAM  OF  SUMMER . 

The  bluebird  in  the  meadow  brakes 
Is  singing  with  the  brook. 

“ Bear  up,  oh  mother  Nature  !”  cry 
Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free  ; 

4‘  Our  winter  voices  prophesy 
Of  summer  days  to  thee  ! ” 

So,  in  those  winters  of  the  soul, 

By  bitter  blasts  and  drear 

O’erswept  from  Memory’s  frozen  pole, 
Will  sunny  days  appear. 

Reviving  Hope  and  Faith,  they  show 
The  soul  its  living  powers, 

And  how  beneath  the  winter’s  snow 
Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers  ! 

The  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day, 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring, 

And  ever  upon  old  Decay 
The  greenest  mosses  cling. 

Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 
Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall 

For  God,  who  loveth  all  His  works, 
Has  left  His  Hope  with  all ! 


TO 


373 


TO . 

WITH  A COPY  OF  WOOLMAN’S  JOURNAL.84 

Maiden  ! with  the  fair  brown  tresses 
Shading  o'er  thy  dreamy  eye, 

Floating  on  thy  thoughtful  forehead 
Cloud  wreaths  of  its  sky. 

Youthful  years  and  maiden  beauty, 

Joy  with  them  should  still  abide. 

Instinct  take  the  place  of  Duty  — 

Love,  not  Reason,  guide. 

Ever  in  the  New  rejoicing, 

Kindly  beckoning  back  the  Old, 

Turning,  with  a power  like  Midas, 

All  things  into  gold. 

And  the  passing  shades  of  sadness 
Wearing  even  a welcome  guise, 

As  when  some  bright  lake  lies  open 
To  the  sunny  skies  ; 

Every  wing  of  bird  above  it, 

Every  light  cloud  floating  on. 

Glitters  like  that  flashing  mirror 
In  the  selfsame  sun. 


374 


TO 


But,  upon  thy  youthful  forehead 
Something  like  a shadow  lies  ; 

And  a serious  soul  is  looking 
From  thy  earnest  eyes. 

With  an  early  introversion, 

Through  the  forms  of  outward  things , 

Seeking  for  the  subtle  essence, 

And  the  hidden  springs. 

Deeper  than  the  gilded  surface 
Hath  thy  wakeful  vision  seen, 

Farther  than  the  narrow  present 
Have  thy  journeyings  been. 

Thou  hast  midst  Life’s  empty  noises 
Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 

And  the  low  mysterious  voices 
Of  another  clime. 

All  the  mystery  of  Being 

Hath  upon  thy  spirit  pressed  — 

Thoughts  which,  like  the  Deluge  wanderer, 
Find  no  place  of  rest : 

That  which  mystic  Plato  pondered, 

That  which  Zeno  heard  with  awe, 

And  the  star-rapt  Zoroaster 
In  his  night-watch  saw. 


TO 


375 


From  the  doubt  and  darkness  springing 
Of  the  dim,  uncertain  Past, 

Moving  to  the  dark  still  shadows 
O’er  the  Future  cast, 

Early  hath  Life’s  mighty  question 
Thrilled  within  thy  heart  of  youth 
With  a deep  and  strong  beseeching : 
What  and  where  is  Truth? 

Hollow  creed  and  ceremonial, 

Whence  the  ancient  life  hath  fled, 
Idle  faith  unknown  to  action, 

Dull  and  cold  and  dead. 

Oracles,  whose  wire-worked  meanings 
Only  wake  a quiet  scorn,  — 

Not  from  these  thy  seeking  spirit 
Hath  its  answer  drawn. 

But,  like  some  tired  child  at  even, 

On  thy  mother  Nature’s  breast, 

Thou,  methinks,  art  vainly  seeking 
Truth,  and  peace,  and  rest. 

O’er  that  mother’s  rugged  features 
Thou  art  throwing  Fancy’s  veil, 

Light  and  soft  as  woven  moonbeams, 
Beautiful  and  frail ! 


376 


TO 


O’er  the  rough  chart  of  Existence, 

Rocks  of  sin  and  wastes  of  woe, 

Soft  airs  breathe,  and  green  leaves  tremble. 
And  cool  fountains  flow. 

And  to  thee  an  answer  cometh 
From  the  earth  and  from  the  sky, 

And  to  thee  the  hills  and  waters 
And  the  stars  reply. 

But  a soul-sufficing  answer 
Hath  no  outward  origin  ; 

More  than  Nature’s  many  voices 
May  be  heard  within. 

Even  as  the  great  Augustine 

Questioned  earth  and  sea  and  sky,86 

And  the  dusty  tomes  of  learning 
And  old  poesy. 

But  his  earnest  spirit  needed 

More  than  outward  Nature  taught  — 

More  than  blest  the  poet’s  vision 
Or  the  sage’s  thought. 

Only  in  the  gathered  silence 
Of  a calm  and  waiting  frame 

Light  and  wisdom  as  from  Heaven 
To  the  seeker  came. 


TO 


377 


Not  to  ease  and  aimless  quiet 
Doth  that  inward  answer  tend, 

But  to  works  of  love  and  duty 
As  our  being’s  end,  — - 

Not  to  idle  dreams  and  trances, 
Length  of  face,  and  solemn  tone. 

But  to  faith,  in  daily  striving 
And  performance  shown. 

Earnest  toil  and  strong  endeavor 
Of  a spirit  which  within 

Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 
And  besetting  sin ; 

And  without,  with  tireless  vigor, 
Steady  heart,  and  weapon  strong. 

In  the  power  of  truth  assailing 
Every  form  of  wrong. 

Guided  thus,  how  passing  lovely 
Is  the  track  of  Woolman’s  feet! 

And  his  brief  and  simple  record 
How  serenely  sweet ! 

O’er  life’s  humblest  duties  throwing 
Light  the  earthling  never  knew, 

Freshening  all  its  dark  waste  places 
As  with  Hermon’s  dew. 


378 


TO 


All  which  glows  in  Pascal’s  pages  — = 

All  which  sainted  Guion  sought, 

Or  the  blue-eyed  German  Rahel 
Half-unconscious  taught : — 

Beauty,  such  as  Goethe  pictured, 

Such  as  Shelley  dreamed  of,  shed 
Living  warmth  and  starry  brightness 
Round  that  poor  man’s  head. 

Not  a vain  and  cold  ideal, 

Not  a poet’s  dream  alone, 

But  a presence  warm  and  real, 

Seen  and  felt  and  known. 

When  the  red  right  hand  of  slaughter 
Moulders  with  the  steel  it  swung, 
When  the  name  of  seer  and  poet 
Dies  on  memory’s  tongue, 

All  bright  thoughts  and  pure  shall  gather 
Round  that  meek  and  suffering  one — • 
Glorious,  like  the  seer-seen  angel 
Standing  in  the  sun  ! 

Take  the  good  man’s  book  and  ponder 
What  its  pages  say  to  thee  — 

Blessed  as  the  hand  of  healing 
May  its  lesson  be. 


TO 


379 


If  it  only  serves  to  strengthen 
Yearnings  for  a higher  good, 

For  the  fount  of  living  waters 
And  diviner  food ; 

If  the  pride  of  human  reason 
Feels  its  meek  and  still  rebuke, 
Quailing  like  the  eye  of  Peter 
From  the  Just  One’s  look  ! — 

If  with  readier  ear  thou  heedest 
What  the  Inward  Teacher  saith, 
Listening  with  a willing  spirit 
And  a childlike  faith,  — 

Thou  mayest  live  to  bless  the  giver, 
Who  himself  but  frail  and  weak, 
Would  at  least  the  highest  welfare 
Of  another  seek ; 

And  his  gift,  though  poor  and  lowly 
' It  may  seem  to  other  eyes, 

Yet  may  prove  an  angel  holy 
In  a pilgrim’s  guise. 


380  LEGGETT'S  MONUMENT. 


LEGGETT’S  MONUMENT. 

“ Ye  build  the  tombs  of  the  prophets.’ * — Holy  Writ . 

Yes  — pile  the  marble  o’er  him  ! It  is  well. 

And  ye  who  mocked  him  in  his  long  stern 
strife, 

And  planted  in  the  pathway  of  his  life 
The  ploughshares  of  your  hatred  hot  from  hell. 

Who  clamored  down  the  bold  reformer  when 

He  pleaded  for  his  captive  fellow-men, 

Who  spurned  him  in  the  market-place,  and 
sought 

Within  thy  walls,  St.  Tammany,  to  bind 
In  party  chains  the  free  and  honest  thought, 

The  angel  utterance  of  an  upright  mind,  — 
Well  is  it  now  that  o’er  his  grave  ye  raise 
The  stony  tribute  of  your  tardy  praise, 

For  not  alone  that  pile  shall  tell  to  Fame 
Of  the  brave  heart  beneath,  but  of  the  builders’ 
shame  l 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA.  381 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA.8® 

Speak  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  north- 
ward far  away, 

O’er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o’er  the  Mexican 
array, 

Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning  ? are  they  far  or 
come  they  near? 

Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls 
the  storm  we  hear. 

“ Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of 
battle  rolls ; 

Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying;  God  have 
mercy  on  their  souls  ! ” 

Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?  — “Over  hill 
and  over  plain, 

I see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the 
mountain  rain.” 

Holy  Mother ! keep  our  brothers  ! Look,  Ximena, 
look  once  more : 

“ Still  I see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly 
as  before, 

Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and 
foeman,  foot  and  horse, 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping 
down  its  mountain  course.” 


382  THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA. 


Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena ! “Ah!  the 
smoke  has  rolled  away ; 

And  I see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down 
the  ranks  of  gray. 

Hark  ! that  sudden  blast  of  bugles ! there  the 
troop  of  Minon  wheels ; 

There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the 
cannon  at  their  heels. 

“Jesu,  pity!  how  it  thickens!  now  retreat  and 
now  advance ! 

Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla’s 
charging  lance  ! 

Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders ; horse 
and  foot  together  fall ; 

Like  a ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them 
ploughs  the  Northern  ball.” 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast 
and  frightful  on : 

Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost, 
and  who  has  won  ? 

“ Alas ! alas ! I know  not ; friend  and  foe 
together  fall, 

O’er  the  dying  rush  the  living : pray,  my  sisters, 
for  them  all ! ” 

44  Lo ! the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting : Blessed 
Mother,  save  my  brain  ! 


THE  ANGELS  GE  BUENA  VISTA.  383 


I can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from 
heaps  of  slain. 

Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding  ; now  they 
fall,  and  strive  to  rise ; 

Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they 
die  before  our  eyes ! 11 

“ Oh  my  heart’s  love  ! oh  my  dear  one  ! lay  thy 
poor  head  on  my  knee ; 

Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee  ? Canst 
thou  hear  me  ? canst  thou  see  ? 

Oh,  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle ! oh,  my 
Bernal,  look  once  more 

On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  ! mercy ! mercy ! 
all  is  o’er  ! ” 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ; lay  thy  dear- 
one  down  to  rest ; 

Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross 
upon  his  breast ; 

Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral 
masses  said ; 

To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask 
thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and 
young,  a soldier  lay, 

Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleed- 
ing slow  his  life  away ; 


3^4  THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA . 

But,  as  tenderly  before  him,  the  lorn  Ximena 
knelt, 

She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol 
belt. 

With  a stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned 
away  her  head ; 

With  a sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back 
upon  her  dead  ; 

But  she  heard  the  youth’s  low  moaning,  and  his 
struggling  breath  of  pain, 

And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parch- 
ing lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her 
hand  and  faintly  smiled  : 

Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother’s?  did  she 
watch  beside  her  child? 

All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman’s 
heart  supplied ; 

With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  “Mother!” 
murmured  he,  and  died  ! 

44  A bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led 
thee  forth, 

From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping, 
lonely,  in  the  North  ! ” 

Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid 
him  with  her  dead, 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA.  385 

And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the 
wounds  which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!  “Like  a cloud 
before  the  wind 

Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving 
blood  and  death  behind ; 

Ah ! they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy ; in  the  dust 
the  wounded  strive ; 

Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels ! oh,  thou  Christ 
of  God,  forgive ! ” 

Sink,  oh  Night,  among  thy  mountains ! let  the 
cool,  gray  shadows  fall; 

Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  cur- 
tain over  all ! 

Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide 
apart  the  battle  rolled, 

In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon’s 
lips  grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task 
pursued, 

Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn 
and  faint  and  lacking  food  ; 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a tender 
care  they  hung, 

And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a strange 
and  Northern  tongue. 


386  FORGIVENESS. 

Not  wholly  lost,  oh  Father!  is  this  evil  world  of 
ours  ; 

Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring 
afresh  the  Eden  flowers  ; 

From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and  Pity 
send  their  prayer, 

And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in 
our  air ! 


FORGIVENESS, 

My  heart  was  heavy,  for  its  trust  had  been 
Abused,  its  kindness  answered  with  foul 
wrong ; 

So,  turning  gloomily  from  my  fellow-men, 

One  summer  Sabbath  day  I strolled  among 
The  green  mounds  of  the  village  burial-place ; 
Where,  pondering  how  all  human  love  and 
hate 

Find  one  sad  level  — and  how,  soon  or  late, 
Wronged  and  wrong-doer,  each  with  meekened 
face, 

And  cold  hands  folded  over  a still  heart, 

Pass  the  green  threshold  of  our  common  grave, 
Whither  all  footsteps  tend,  whence  none 
depart, 

Awed  for  myself,  and  pitying  my  race, 

Our  common  sorrow,  like  a mighty  wave, 

Swept  all  my  pride  away,  and  trembling  I 
forgave  ! 


B ARC  LA  Y OF  URY. 


387 


BARCLAY  OF  URY.87 

Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 

By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 

Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury ; 

Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 

Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 

Jeered  at  him  the  serving  girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master ; 

And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury’s  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Yet,  with  calm  and  stately  mien, 

Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 
Came  he  slowly  riding ; 

And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came  a troop  with  broadswords  swinging. 
Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 

Loose  and  free  and  froward  ; 


BARCLAY  OF  URY. 


Quoth  the  foremost,  “ Ride  him  down  ! 
Push  him ! prick  him ! through  the  town 
Drive  the  Quaker  coward  ! ” 

But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a sudden  voice  and  loud : 

“ Barclay ! Ho  ! a Barclay !” 

And  the  old  man  at  his  side, 

Saw  a comrade,  battle  tried, 

Scarred  and  sunburned  darkly ; 

Who  with  ready  weapon  bare, 

Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Cried  aloud  : “ God  save  us  I 
Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle  deep  in  Lutzen’s  blood, 

With  the  brave  Gustavus  ? ” 

“ Nay,  I do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,”  said  Ury’s  lord ; 

“ Put  it  up  I pray  thee : 

Passive  to  His  holy  will, 

Trust  I in  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  he  slay  me. 

“ Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 

Proved  on  many  a field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed.” 

Marvelled  much  that  henchman  bold. 


BARCLAY  OF  URY. 


3% 


That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

“ Woe’s  the  day,”  he  sadly  said, 

With  a slowly-shaking  head, 

And  a look  of  pity  ; 

Ury’s  honest  lord  reviled, 

Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 

In  his  own  good  city ! 

s<  Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly’s  line, 

And  his  Walloon  lancers, 

Smiting  through  their  midst  we’ll  teach 
Civil  took  and  decent  speech 
To  these  boyish  prancers  ! ” 

“ Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend, 

Like  beginning,  like  the  end : ” 

Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury, 

“ Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 
Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry? 

“ Give  me  joy  that  in  His  name 
I can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer ; 

While  for  them  He  suffereth  long, 

Shall  I answer  wrong  with  wrong, 
Scoffing  with  the  scoffer? 


BARCLAY  OF  URY. 


“ Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all, 

Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me, 

Than  when  reeve  and  squire  were  seen, 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen, 

With  bared  heads,  to  meet  me. 

“ When  each  good  wife,  o’er  and  o’er, 
Blessed  me  as  I passed  her  door ; 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 
Through  her  casement  glancing  down, 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 
From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

“ Hard  to  feel  the  stranger’s  scoff, 

Hard  the  old  friend’s  falling  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving : 

But  the  Lord  His  own  rewards, 

And  His  love  with  theirs  accords, 
Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

“ Through  this  dark  and  stormy  night 
Faith  beholds  a feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking ; 
Knowing  God’s  own  time  is  best, 

In  a patient  hope  I rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking!  ” 

So  the  Laird  of  Ury  said, 

Turning  slow  his  horse’s  head 

Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison, 


BARCLAY  OF  URY. 


391 

Where,  through  iron  grates,  he  heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 
Preach  of  Christ  arisen  ! 

Not  in  vain,  Confessor  old, 

Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 
Of  thy  day  of  trial ; 

Every  age  on  him,  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways. 

Pours  its  seven-fold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angel  comfortings  can  hear, 

O’er  the  rabble’s  laughter ; 

And,  while  Hatred’s  fagots  burn, 

Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 
Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  that  never  yet 
Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 
In  the  world’s  wide  fallow ; 

After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 

After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 
Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  Seer, 

Must  the  moral  pioneer 

From  the  Future  borrow ; 

Clothe  the  waste  with  dreams  of  grain, 
And,  on  midnight’s  sky  of  rain, 

Paint  the  golden  morrow  ! 


39*  WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID . 


WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID. 

Maddened  by  Earth’s  wrong  and  evil, 

“ Lord  !”  I cried  in  sudden  ire, 

“ From  thy  right  hand,  clothed  with  thunder, 
Shake  the  bolted  fire ! 

44  Love  is  lost,  and  Faith  is  dying; 

With  the  brute  the  man  is  sold ; 

And  the  dropping  blood  of  labor 
Hardens  into  gold. 

44  Here  the  dying  wail  of  Famine, 

There  the  battle’s  groan  of  pain ; 

And,  in  silence,  smooth-faced  Mammon 
Reaping  men  like  grain. 

44  4 Where  is  God,  that  we  should  fear  him?  } 
Thus  the  earth-born  Titans  say ; 

4 God  ! if  thou  art  living,  hear  us  ! ’ 

Thus  the  weak  ones  pray. 

“ Thou,  the  patient  Heaven  upbraiding,” 
Spake  a solemn  Voice  within  ; 

•4  Weary  of  our  Lord’s  forbearance, 

Art  thou  free  from  sin? 


WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID . 393 


* 4 Fearless  brow  to  Him  uplifting, 

Canst  thou  for  His  thunders  call, 

Knowing  that  to  guilt’s  attraction 
Evermore  they  fall  ? 

4<  Know’st  thou  not  all  germs  of  evil 
In  thy  heart  await  their  time? 

Not  thyself,  but  God’s  restraining, 

Stays  their  growth  of  crime. 

44  Could’st  thou  boast,  oh  child  of  weakness! 
O’er  the  sons  of  wrong  and  strife, 

Were  their  strong  temptations  planted 
Lmthy  path  of  life  ? 

* ‘ Thou  hast  seen  two  streamlets  gushing 
From  one  fountain,  clear  and  free, 

But  by  widely  varying  channels 
Searching  for  the  sea. 

“ Glideth  one  through  greenest  valleys, 
Kissing  them  with  lips  still  sweet ; 

One,  mad  roaring  down  the  mountains, 
Stagnates  at  their  feet. 

“Is  it  choice  whereby  the  Parsee 
Kneels  before  his  mother’s  fire? 

In  his  black  tent  did  the  Tartar 
Choose  his  wandering  sire? 


WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID . 


“ He  alone,  whose  hand  is  bounding 
Human  power  and  human  will, 

Looking  through  each  soul’s  surrounding. 
Knows  its  good  or  ill. 

“For  thyself,  while  wrong  and  sorrow 
Make  to  thee  their  strong  appeal, 
Coward  wert  thou  not  to  utter 
What  the  heart  must  feel. 

“ Earnest  words  must  needs  be  spoken 
When  the  warm  heart  bleeds  or  burns 
With  its  scorn  of  wrong,  or  pity 
For  the  wronged,  by  turns. 

“ But,  by  all  thy  nature’s  weakness, 
Hidden  faults  and  follies  known. 

Be  thou,  in  rebuking  evil, 

Conscious  of  thine  own. 

“ Not  the  less  shall  stern-eyed  Duty 
To  thy  lips  her  trumpet  set, 

But  with  harsher  blasts  shall  mingle 
Wailings  of  regret.” 

Cease  not,  Voice  of  holy  speaking, 
Teacher  sent  of  God,  be  near, 
Whispering  through  the  day’s  cool  silence, 
Let  my  spirit  hear ! 


TO  DELAWARE. 


395 


So,  when  thoughts  of  evil  doers 
Waken  scorn  or  hatred  move, 
Shall  a mournful  fellow-feeling 
Temper  all  with  love. 


TO  DELAWARE.88 

Thrice  welcome  to  thy  sisters  of  the  East, 

To  the  strong  tillers  of  a rugged  home, 

With  spray-wet  locks  to  Northern  winds  re- 
leased, 

AndThardy  feet  o’erswept  by  ocean’s  foam; 

And  to  the  young  nymphs  of  the  golden  West, 
Whose  harvest  mantles,  fringed  with  prairie 
bloom, 

Trail  in  the  sunset,  — oh,  redeemed  and  blest, 
To  the  warm  welcome  of  thy  sisters  come  ! 

Broad  Pennsylvania,  down  her  sail-white  bay 
Shall  give  thee  joy,  and  Jersey  from  her 
plains, 

And  the  great  lakes,  where  echoes  free  alway 
Moaned  never  shoreward  with  the  clank  of 
chains, 

Shall  weave  new  sun-bows  in  their  tossing  spray, 

And  all  their  waves  keep  grateful  holiday. 

And,  smiling  on  thee  through  her  mountain 
rains, 


396  WORSHIP . 

Vermont  shall  bless  thee ; and  the  Granite 
peaks, 

And  vast  Katahdin  o’er  his  woods,  shall  wear 
Their  snow-crowns  brighter  in  the  cold,  keen 
air ; 

And  Massachusetts,  with  her  rugged  cheeks 
O’errun  with  grateful  tears,  shall  turn  to  thee, 
When,  at  thy  bidding,  the  electric  wire 
Shall  tremble  northward  with  its  words  of 
fire : 

Glory  and  praise  to  God ! another  State  is  free ! 


WORSHIP.89 

The  Pagan’s  myths  through  marble  lips  are 
spoken, 

And  ghosts  of  old  Beliefs  still  flit  and  moan 

Round  fane  and  altar  overthrown  and  broken, 
O’er  tree-grown  barrow  and  gray  ring  of  stone. 

Blind  Faith  had  martyrs  in  those  old  high  places, 
The  Syrian  hill  grove  and  the  Druid’s  wood, 

With  mothers’  offering,  to  the  Fiend’s  embraces, 
Bone  of  their  bone,  and  blood  of  their  own 
blood. 

Red  altars,  kindling  through  that  night  of  error, 
Smoked  with  warm  blood  beneath  the  cruel 
eye 


WORSHIP. 


397 


Of  lawless  Power  and  sanguinary  Terror, 
Throned  on  the  circle  of  a pitiless  sky ; 

Beneath  whose  baleful  shadow,  overcasting 
All  heaven  above,  and  blighting  earth  below, 

The  scourge  grew  red,  the  lip  grew  pale  with 
fasting, 

And  man’s  oblation  was  his  fear  and  woe  ! 

Then  through  great  temples  swelled  the  dismal 
moaning 

Of  dirge-like  music  and  sepulchral  prayer ; 

Pale  wizard  priests,  o’er  occult  symbols  droning, 
Swung  their  white  censers  in  the  burdened  air  : 

As  if  the  pomp  of  rituals,  and  the  savor 

Of  gums  and  spices,  could  the  Unseen  One 
please ; 

As  if  His  ear  could  bend,  with  childish  favor, 

To  the  poor  flattery  of  the  organ  keys  ! 

Feet  red  from  war  fields  trod  the  church  aisles 
holy, 

With  trembling  reverence  ; and  the  oppressor 
there, 

Kneeling  before  his  priest,  abased  and  lowly, 
Crushed  human  hearts  beneath  his  knee  of 
prayer. 

Not  such  the  service  the  benignant  Father 
Requireth  at  his  earthly  children’s  hands : 


3 98 


WORSHIP. 


Not  the  poor  offering  of  vain  rites,  but  rather 
The  simple  duty  man  from  man  demands. 

For  Earth  he  asks  it : the  full  joy  of  Heaven 
Knoweth  no  change  of  waning  or  increase ; 

The  great  heart  of  the  Infinite  beats  even, 
Untroubled  flows  the  river  of  Hik  peace. 

He  asks  no  taper  lights,  on  high  surrounding 
The  priestly  altar  and  the  saintly  grave, 

No  dolorous  chant  nor  organ  music  sounding, 
Nor  incense  clouding  up  the  twilight  nave. 

For  he  whom  Jesus  loved  hath  truly  spoken : 
The  holier  worship  which  he  deigns  to  bless 

Restores  the  lost,  and  binds  the  spirit  broken. 
And  feeds  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  ! 

Types  of  our  human  weakness  and  our  sorrow ! 
Who  lives  unhaunted  by  his  loved  ones  dead? 

Who,  with  vain  longing,  seeketh  not  to  borrow 
From  stranger  eyes  the  home  lights  which 
have  fled? 

Oh,  brother  man ! fold  to  thy  heart  thy  brother ; 
Where  pity  dwells,  the  peace  of  God  is  there ; 

To  worship  rightly  is  to  love  each  other, 

Each  smile  a hymn,  each  kindly  deed  a prayer. 

Follow  with  reverent  steps  the  great  example 
Of  Him  whose  holy  work  was  “ doing  good  ; ” 


THE  ALBUM. 


399 


So  shall  the  wide  earth  seem  our  Father’s  temple, 
Each  loving  life  a psalm  of  gratitude. 

Then  shall  all  shackles  fall ; the  stormy  clangor 
Of  wild  war  music  o’er  the  earth  shall  cease ; 
Love  shall  tread  out  the  baleful  fire  of  anger, 
And  in  its  ashes  plant  the  tree  of  peace ! 


THE  ALBUM. 

The  dark-eyed  daughters  of  the  Sun, 
At  morn  and  evening  hours, 

O’erhung  their  graceful  shrines  alone 
With  wreaths  of  dewy  flowers. 

Not  vainly  did  those  fair  ones  cull 
Their  gifts  by  stream  and  wood ; 

The  Good  is  always  beautiful, 

The  Beautiful  is  good  ! 

We  live  not  in  their  simple  day, 

Our  Northern  blood  is  cold, 

And  few  the  offerings  which  we  lay 
On  other  shrines  than  Gold. 

With  scripture  texts  to  chill  and  ban 
The  heart’s  fresh  morning  hours, 

The  heavy-footed  Puritan 

Goes  trampling  down  the  flowers ; 


400  THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY. 


Nor  thinks  of  Him  who  sat  of  old 
Where  Syrian  lilies  grew, 

And  from  their  mingling  shade  and  gold 
A holy  lesson  drew. 

Yet  lady,  shall  this  book  of  thine, 

Where  Love  his  gifts  has  brought, 
Become  to  thee  a Persian  shrine, 
O’erhung  with  flowers  of  thought. 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY. 

The  Brownie  sits  in  the  Scotchman’s  room, 

And  eats  his  meat  and  drinks  his  ale, 

And  beats  the  maid  with  her  unused  broom, 
And  the  lazy  lout  with  his  idle  flail, 

But  he  sweeps  the  floor  and  threshes  the  corn, 
And  hies  him  away  ere  the  break  of  dawn. 

The  shade  of  Denmark  fled  from  the  sun, 

And  the  Cocklane  ghost  from  the  barn  loft 
cheer, 

The  fiend  of  Faust  was  a faithful  one, 

Agrippa’s  demon  wrought  in  fear, 

And  the  devil  of  Martin  Luther  sat 
By  the  stout  monk’s  side  in  social  chat. 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY.  40 1 


The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  the  neck  of  him 
Who  seven  times  crossed  the  deep, 

Twined  closely  each  lean  and  withered  limb, 
Like  the  nightmare  in  one’s  sleep. 

But  he  drank  of  the  wine,  and  Sinbad  cast 
The  evil  weight  from  his  back  at  last. 

But  the  demon  that  cometh  day  by  day 
To  my  quiet  room  and  fireside  nook, 

Where  the  casement  light  falls  dim  and  gray 
On  faded  painting  and  ancient  book, 

Is  a sorrier  one  than  any  whose  names 
Are  chronicled  well  by  good  king  James. 

No  bearer  of  burdens  like  Caliban, 

No  runner  of  errands  like  Ariel, 

He  comes  in  the  shape  of  a fat  old  man, 
Without  rap  of  knuckle  or  pull  of  bell : 

And  whence  he  comes,  or  whither  he  goes, 

I know  as  I do  of  the  wind  which  blows. 

A stout  old  man  with  a greasy  hat 

Slouched  heavily  down  to  his  dark,  red  nose. 
And  two  gray  eyes  enveloped  in  fat, 

Looking  through  glasses  with  iron  bows. 
Read  ye,  and  heed  ye,  and  ye  who  can, 

Guard  well  your  doors  from  that  old  man  ! 

He  comes  with  a careless  “ how  d’ye  do,” 

And  seats  himself  in  my  elbow  chair ; 


402  THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY, 


And  my  morning  paper  and  pamphlet  new 
Fall  forthwith  under  his  special  care, 

And  he  wipes  his  glasses  and  clears  his  throat. 
And,  button  by  button,  unfolds  his  coat. 

And  then  he  reads  from  paper  and  book, 

In  a low  and  husky  asthmatic  tone, 

With  the  stolid  sameness  of  posture  and  look 
Of  one  who  reads  to  himself  alone ; 

And  hour  after  hour  on  my  senses  come 
That  husky  wheeze  and  that  dolorous  hum. 

The  price  of  stocks,  the  auction  sales, 

The  poet’s  song  and  the  lover’s  glee, 

The  horrible  murders,  the  seaboard  gales, 

The  marriage  list,  and  the  jeu  d'1  esprit. 

All  reach  my  ear  in  the  selfsame  tone,  — 

I shudder  at  each,  but  the  fiend  reads  on  ! 

Oh  ! sweet  as  the  lapse  of  water  at  noon 
O’er  the  mossy  roots  of  some  forest  tree, 

The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of  June, 

Or  sound  of  flutes  o’er  a moonlight  sea, 

Or  the  low  soft  music,  perchance  which  seems 
To  float  through  the  slumbering  singer’s  dreams. 

So  sweet,  so  dear  is  the  silvery  tone 

Of  her  in  whose  features  I sometimes  look, 
As  I sit  at  eve  by  her  side  alone, 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY.  403 


And  we  read  by  turns  from  the  selfsame 
book  — 

Some  tale  perhaps  of  the  olden  time, 

Some  lover’s  romance  or  quaint  old  rhyme. 

Then  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe,  — 

Some  prisoner’s  plaint  through  his  dungeon- 
bar, 

Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and  low 
Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a moan  afar ; 

And  I seem  to  hear  that  prisoner’s  wail, 

And  his  face  looks  on  me  worn  and  pale. 

And  when  she  reads  some  merrier  song, 

Her  voice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird’s, 

And  when  the  tale  is  of  war  and  wrong, 

A trumpet’s  summons  is  in  her  words, 

And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I seem  to  hear, 

And  see  the  tossing  of  plume  and  spear ! — 

Oh,  pity  me  then',  when,  day  by  day, 

The  stout  fiend  darkens  my  parlor  door ; 

And  reads  me  perchance  the  selfsame  lay 
Which  melted  in  music  the  night  before, 
From  lips  as  the  lips  of  Hylas  sweet, 

And  moved  like  twin  roses  which  zephyrs  meet ! 

I cross  my  floor  with  a nervous  tread, 

I whistle  and  laugh  and  sing  and  shout, 


404  THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY, 


I flourish  my  cane  above  his  head, 

And  stir  up  the  fire  to  roast  him  out ; 

I topple  the  chairs,  and  drum  on  the  pane, 

And  press  my  hands  on  my  ears,  in  vain ! 

I’ve  studied  Glanville  and  James  the  wise, 

And  wizard  black-letter  tomes  which  treat 
Of  demons  of  every  name  and  size, 

Which  a Christian  man  is  presumed  to  meet, 
But  never  a hint  and  never  a line 
Can  I find  of  a reading  fiend  like  mine. 

I’ve  crossed  the  Psalter  with  Brady  and  Tate, 
And  laid  the  Primer  above  them  all. 

I’ve  nailed  a horseshoe  over  the  grate. 

And  hung  a wig  to  my  parlor  wall 
Once  worn  by  a learned  Judge,  they  say, 

At  Salem  court  in  the  witchcraft  day  ! 

“ Conjuro  te,  scleratissime, 

A bire  ad  tuum  locum  ! ” — still 
Like  a visible  nightmare  he  sits  by  me  — 

The  exorcism  has  lost  its  skill ; 

And  I hear  again  in  my  haunted  room 
The  husky  wheeze  and  the  dolorous  hum  ! 

Ah  ! — commend  me  to  Mary  Magdalen 

With  her  seven-fold  plagues  — to  the  wander- 
ing Jew, 


THE  PUMPKIN. 


405 


To  the  terrors  which  haunted  Orestes  when 
The  furies  his  midnight  curtains  drew, 
But  charm  him  off,  ye  who  charm  him  can, 
That  reading  demon,  that  fat  old  man  ! — 


THE  PUMPKIN. 

Oh  ! greenly  and  fair  in  the  lands  of  the  sun, 

The  vines  of  the  gourd  and  the  rich  melon  run, 

And  the  rock  and  the  tree  and  the  cottage 
enfold, 

With  broad  leaves  all  greenness  and  blossoms 
all  gold. 

Like  that  which  o’er  Nineveh’s  prophet  once 
grew, 

While  he  waited  to  know  that  his  warning  was 
true, 

And  longed  for  the  storm-cloud,  and  listened  in 
vain 

For  the  rush  of  the  whirlwind  and  red  fire-rain. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Xenil  the  dark  Spanish 
maiden 

Comes  up  with  the  fruit  of  the  tangled  vine 
laden ; 

And  the  Creole  of  Cuba  laughs  out  to  behold 

Through  orange-leaves  shining  the  broad  spheres 
of  gold; 


4° 6 THE  PUMPKIN. 

Yet  with  dearer  delight  from  his  home  in  the 
North, 

On  the  fields  of  his  harvest  the  Yankee  looks 
forth, 

Where  crook-necks  are  coiling  and  yellow  fruit 
shines, 

And  the  sun  of  September  melts  down  on  his 
vines. 

Ah  ! — on  Thanksgiving  Day,  when  from  East 
and  from  West, 

From  North  and  from  South  come  the  pilgrim 
and  guest, 

When  the  gray-haired  New  Englander  sees  round 
his  board 

The  old  broken  links  of  affection  restored, 

When  the  care-wearied  man  seeks  his  mother 
once  more, 

And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where  the  girl 
smiled  before, 

What  moistens  the  lip  and  what  brightens  the 
eye? 

What  calls  back  the  past,  like  the  rich  Pumpkin 
pie? 

Oh  ! — fruit  loved  of  boyhood  ! — the  old  days 
recalling, 

When  wood-grapes  were  purpling  and  brown 
nuts  were  falling ! 


THE  PUMPKIN ; 


407 


When  wild,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in  its  skin, 

Glaring  out  through  the  dark  with  a candle 
within ! 

When  we  laughed  round  the  corn-heap,  with 
hearts  all  in  tune, 

Our  chair  a broad  pumpkin  — our  lantern  the 
moon, 

Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  travelled  like 
steam, 

In  a pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two  rats  for  her 
team ! 

Then  thanks  for  thy  present ! — none  sweeter  or 
better 

E’er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled  a platter  ! 

Fairer  hands  never  wrought  at  a pastry  more 
fine, 

Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o’er  its  baking  than 
thine ! 

And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too  full  to 
express, 

Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may  never  be 
less ; 

That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  be  lengthened 
below, 

And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  a pumpkin-vine 
grow, 

And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last  sunset  sky 

Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own  Pumpkin  Pie  I 


408  “A  NEW  ENGLAND  LEGEND: 


EXTRACT  FROM  “ A NEW  ENG- 
LAND LEGEND.” 

How  has  New  England’s  romance  fled, 

Even  as  a vision  of  the  morning  ! 

Its  rites  fordone  — its  guardians  dead  — 

Its  priestesses,  bereft  of  dread, 

Waking  the  veriest  urchin’s  scorning ! — 

Gone  like  the  Indian  wizard’s  yell 
And  fire-dance  round  the  magic  rock, 
Forgotten  like  the  Druid’s  spell 
At  moonrise  by  his  holy  oak ! 

No  more  along  the  shadowy  glen, 

Glide  the  dim  ghosts  of  murdered  men ; 

No  more  the  unquiet  churchyard  dead 
Glimpse  upward  from  their  turfy  bed, 

Startling  the  traveller,  late  and  lone ; 

As,  on  some  night  of  starless  weather, 

They  silently  commune  together, 

Each  sitting  on  his  own  headstone ! 

The  roofless  house,  decayed,  deserted, 

Its  living  tenants  all  departed, 

No  longer  rings  with  midnight  revel 
Of  witch,  or  ghost,  or  goblin  evil ; 

No  pale,  blue  flame  sends  out  its  flashes 
Through  creviced  roof  and  shattered  sashes  ! — 


“A  NEW  ENGLAND  LEGEND 4°9 

The  witch-grass  round  the  hazel  spring 
May  sharply  to  the  night-air  sing, 

But  there  no  more  shall  withered  hags 
Refresh  at  ease  their  broom-stick  nags, 

Or  taste  those  hazel-shadowed  waters 
As  beverage  meet  for  Satan’s  daughters ; 

No  more  their  mimic  tones  be  heard  — 

The  mew  of  cat  — the  chirp  of  bird, 

Shrill  blending  with  the  hoarser  laughter 
Of  the  fell  demon  following  after ! 

The  cautious  good-man  nails  no  more 
A horseshoe  on  his  outer  door, 

Lest  some  unseemly  hag  should  fit 
To  his  own  mouth  her  bridle-bit  — 

The  good-wife’s  churn  no  more  refuses 

Its  wonted  culinary  uses 

Until,  with  heated  needle  burned, 

The  witch  has  to  her  place  returned ! 

Our  witches  are  no  longer  old, 

And  wrinkled  beldames,  Satan-sold, 

But  young  and  gay  and  laughing  creatures, 

With  the  heart’s  sunshine  on  their  features  — 
Their  sorcery  — the  light  which  dances 
Where  the  raised  lid  unveils  its  glances ; 

Or  that  low  breathed  and  gentle  tone, 

The  music  of  Love’s  twilight  hours, 

Soft,  dreamlike,  as  a fairy’s  moan 
Above  her  nightly  closing  flowers, 


4io 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 


Sweeter  than  that  which  sighed  of  yore, 
Along  the  charmed  Ausonian  shore ! 

Even  she,  our  own  weird  heroine, 

Sole  Pythoness  of  ancient  Lynn, 

Sleeps  calmly  where  the  living  laid  her. 
And  the  wide  realm  of  sorcery, 

Left  by  its  latest  mistress  free, 

Hath  found  no  gray  and  skilled  invader  s 
So  perished  Albion’s  “glammarye,” 

With  him  in  Melrose  Abbey  sleeping, 
His  charmed  torch  beside  his  knee, 

That  even  the  dead  himself  might  see 
The  magic  scroll  within  his  keeping. 

And  now  our  modern  Yankee  sees 
Nor  omens,  spells,  nor  mysteries ; 

And  nought  above,  below,  around, 

Of  life  or  death,  of  sight  or  sound, 
Whate’er  its  nature,  form,  or  look, 
Excites  his  terror  or  surprise  — 

All  seeming  to  his  knowing  eyes 
Familiar  as  his  “ catechise,” 

Or  “Webster’s  Spelling  Book.” 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 

The  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright. 
Where,  miles  away, 

Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 


41 1 

A luminous  belt,  a misty  light, 

Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes  of  sandy 
gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea ! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 

Still  as  a picture,  clear  and  free, 

With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast  for  miles 
around. 

On  — on  — we  tread  with  loose-flung  rein 
Our  seaward  way, 

Through  dark-green  fields  and  blossom- 
ing grain, 

Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the  lane, 
And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flowering  locust 
spray. 

Ha  ! like  a kind  hand  on  my  brow 
Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 

While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 
The  breath  of  a new  life  — the  healing  of  the  seas  l 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 
His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds  with 
cool  spray  wet. 


412 


HAMPTON  BEACH 


Good-by  to  Pain  and  Care ! I take 
Mine  ease  to-day ; 

Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break, 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I shake 
All  burdens  from  the  heart,  all  weary  thoughts 
away. 

I draw  a freer  breath  — I seem 
Like  all  I see  — 

Waves  in  the  sun  — the  white-winged 
gleam 

Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam  — 

And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the  South  wind 
free. 

So  when  Time’s  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 
The  soul  may  know 

No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 
Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 
But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the  vastness 
grow. 

And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 
No  new  revealing; 

Familiar  as  our  childhood’s  stream, 

Or  pleasant  memory  of  a dream 
The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon  the  new  life 
stealing. 

Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light 
May  have  its  dawning ; 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 


413 


And,  as  in  Summer’s  northern  night 
The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 

The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with  the  soul’s 
new  morning. 

I sit  alone : in  foam  and  spray 
Wave  after  wave 

Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern  and  gray, 
Beneath  like  fallen  Titans  lay, 

Or  murmurs  hoarse  and  strong  through  mossy 
cleft  and  cave. 

What  heed  I of  the  dusty  land 
And  noisy  town  ? 

I see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer  waves, 
shuts  down  ! 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I yield  to  all 

The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and  wincT„ 
And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 

I wander  with  the  waves,  and  with  them  rise  and; 
fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer ! — wave  and  shore. 
In  shadow  lie ; 

The  night-wind  warns  me  back  once  more 
To  where  my  native  hill-tops  o?er 
Bends  like  an  arch  of  fire  the  glowing  sunset  sky  I 


414 


LINES. 


So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  farewell! 
I bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 

But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing  by  the  Sea. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  OF  THE  DEATH  OF 
SILAS  WRIGHT,  OF  NEW  YORK. 

IOTH  MONTH,  1 847. 

As  they  who,  tossing  midst  the  storm  at  night, 
While  turning  shoreward,  where  a beacon 
shone, 

Meet  the  walled  blackness  of  the  heaven  alone, 
So,  on  the  turbulent  waves  of  party  tossed, 

In  gloom  and  tempest,  men  have  seen  thy  light 
Quenched  in  the  darkness.  At  thy  hour  of 
noon, 

While  life  was  pleasant  to  thy  undimmed  sight, 
And,  day  by  day,  within  thy  spirit  grew 
A holier  hope  than  young  Ambition  knew, 

As  through  thy  rural  quiet,  not  in  vain, 

Pierced  the  sharp  thrill  of  Freedom's  cry  of  pain, 
Man  of  the  millions,  thou  art  lost  too  soon ! 
Portents  at  which  the  bravest  stand  aghast  — 
The  birth-throes  of  a Future,  strange  and  vast, 


LINES.  41 5 

Alarm  the  land  ; yet  thou,  so  wise  and  strong. 
Suddenly  summoned  to  the  burial  bed, 

Lapped  in  its  slumbers  deep  and  ever  long, 
Hear’st  not  the  tumult  surging  overhead. 

Who  now  shall  rally  Freedom’s  scattering  host? 
Who  wear  the  mantle  of  the  leader  lost? 

Who  stay  the  march  of  slavery  ? He,  whose  voice 

Hath  called  thee  from  thy  task-field,  shall  not 
lack 

Yet  bolder  champions,  to  beat  bravely  back 
The  wrong  which,  through  His  poor  ones, 
reaches  Him  : 

Yet  firmer  hands  shall  Freedom’s  torch-lights 
trim, 

And  wave  them  high  across  the  abysmal  black. 
Till  bound,  dumb  millions  there  shall  see  them 
and  rejoice. 


LINES, 

ACCOMPANYING  MANUSCRIPTS  PRESENTED  TO  A 
FRIEND. 

’Tis  said  that  in  the  Holy  Land 

The  angels  of  the  place  have  blessed 
The  pilgrim’s  bed  of  desert  sand, 

Like  Jacob’s  stone  of  rest. 


4i  6 


LINES. 


That  down  the  hush  of  Syrian  skies 

Some  sweet-voiced  saint  at  twilight  sings 

The  song  whose  holy  symphonies 
Are  beat  by  unseen  wings  ; 

Still  starting  from  his  sandy  bed, 

The  way-worn  wanderer  looks  to  see 

The  halo  of  an  angel’s  head 
Shine  through  the  tamarisk  tree. 

So  through  the  shadows  of  my  way 
Thy  smile  hath  fallen  soft  and  clear, 

So  at  the  weary  close  of  day 

Hath  seemed  thy  voice  of  cheer. 

That  pilgrim  pressing  to  his  goal 
May  pause  not  for  the  vision’s  sake, 

Yet  all  fair  things  within  his  soul 
The  thought  of  it  shall  wake ; 

The  graceful  palm  tree  by  the  well, 

Seen  on  the  far  horizon’s  rim ; 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  fleet  gazelle, 

Bent  timidly  on  him  ; 

Each  pictured  saint,  whose  golden  hair 

Streams  sunlike  through  the  convent’s  gloom ; 

Pale  shrines  of  martyrs  young  and  fair, 

And  loving  Mary’s  tomb  ; 


LINES. 


417 


And  thus  each  tint  or  shade  which  falls 
From  sunset  cloud  or  waving  tree, 

Along  my  pilgrim  path  recalls 
The  pleasant  thought  of  thee. 

Of  one,  in  sun  and  shade  the  same, 

In  weal  and  woe  my  steady  friend, 
Whatever  by  that  holy  name 
The  angels  comprehend. 

Not  blind  to  faults  and  follies,  thou 
Hast  never  failed  the  good  to  see, 

Nor  judged  by  one  unseemly  bough 
The  upward-struggling  tree. 

These  light  leaves  at  thy  feet  I lay  — 

Poor  common  thoughts  on  common  things, 
Which  time  is  shaking,  day  by  day, 

Like  feathers  from  his  wings  — 

Chance  shootings  from  a frail  life-tree, 

To  nurturing  care  but  little  known, 

Their  good  was  partly  learned  of  thee, 

Their  folly  is  my  own. 

That  tree  still  clasps  the  kindly  mould, 

Its  leaves  still  drink  the  twilight  dew, 

And  weaving  its  pale  green  with  gold, 

Still  shines  the  sunlight  through. 


418 


THE  REWARD. 


There  still  the  morning  zephyrs  play, 

And  there  at  times  the  spring  bird  sings, 

And  mossy  trunk  and  fading  spray 
Are  flowered  with  glossy  wings. 

Yet,  even  in  genial  sun  and  rain, 

Root,  branch,  and  leaflet  fail  and  fade; 

The  wanderer  on  its  lonely  plain 
Ere  long  shall  miss  its  shade. 

Oh,  friend  beloved,  whose  curious  skill 

Keeps  bright  the  last  year’s  leaves  and  flowers, 

With  warm,  glad  summer  thoughts  to  fill 
The  cold,  dark,  winter  hours  ! 

Pressed  on  thy  heart,  the  leaves  I bring 
May  well  defy  the  wintry  cold, 

Until,  in  Heaven’s  eternal  spring, 

Life’s  fairer  ones  unfold. 


THE  REWARD. 

Who,  looking  backward  from  his  manhood’s 
prime, 

Sees  not  the  spectre  of  his  misspent  time? 

And,  through  the  shade 
Of  funeral  cypress  planted  thick  behind, 

Hears  no  reproachful  whisper  on  the  wind 
From  his  loved  dead? 


Raphael. 


THE  REWARD . 


419 


Who  bears  no  trace  of  passion’s  evil  force  ? 

Who  shuns  thy  sting,  oh  terrible  Remorse  ? — 
Who  does  not  cast 

On  the  thronged  pages  of  his  memory’s  book, 
At  times,  a sad  and  half  reluctant  look, 
Regretful  of  the  Past? 

Alas  ! — the  evil  which  we  fain  would  shun 
We  do,  and  leave  the  wished-for  good  undone : ■ 
Our  strength  to-day 

Is  but  to-morrow’s  weakness,  prone  to  fall; 
Poor,  blind,  unprofitable  servants  all 
Are  we  alway. 

Yet,  who,  thus  looking  backward  o’er  his  years. 
Feels  not  his  eyelids  wet  with  grateful  tears, 

If  he  hath  been 

Permitted,  weak  and  sinful  as  he  was, 

To  cheer  and  aid,  in  some  ennobling  cause, 

His  fellow-men? 

If  he  hath  hidden  the  outcast,  or  let  in 
A ray  of  sunshine  to  the  cell  of  sin,  — 

If  he  hath  lent 

Strength  to  the  weak,  and,  in  an  hour  of  need, 
Over  the  suffering,  mindless  of  his  creed 
Or  home,  hath  bent. 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain,  and  while  he  gives 
The  praise  to  Him,  in  whom  he  moves  and  lives, 
With  thankful  heart ; 


420 


RAPHAEL. 


He  gazes  backward,  and  with  hope  before, 
Knowing  that  from  his  works  he  never  more 
Can  henceforth  part. 


RAPHAEL.90 

I shall  not  soon  forget  that  sight : 

The  glow  of  Autumn’s  westering  day, 

A hazy  warmth,  a dreamy  light, 

On  Raphael’s  picture  lay. 

It  was  a simple  print  I saw, 

The  fair  face  of  a musing  boy ; 

Yet  while  I gazed  a sense  of  awe 
Seemed  blending  with  my  joy. 

A simple  print : — the  graceful  flow 
Of  boyhood’s  soft  and  wavy  hair, 

And  fresh  young  lip  and  cheek,  and  brow 
Unmarked  and  clear,  were  there. 

Yet  through  its  sweet  and  calm  repose 
I saw  the  inward  spirit  shine ; 

It  was  as  if  before  me  rose 
The  white  veil  of  a shrine. 


RAPHAEL. 


421 


As  if,  as  Gothland’s  sage  has  told, 

The  hidden  life,  the  man  within, 

Dissevered  from  its  frame  and  mould, 

By  mortal  eye  were  seen. 

Was  it  the  lifting  of  that  eye, 

The  waving  of  that  pictured  hand? 

Loose  as  a cloud-wreath  on  the  sky, 

I saw  the  walls  expand. 

The  narrow  room  had  vanished,  — space 
Broad,  luminous,  remained  alone, 

Through  which  all  hues  and  shapes  of  grace 
And  beauty  looked  or  shone. 

Around  the  mighty  master  came 

The  marvels  which  his  pencil  wrought. 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is  wide  as  human  thought. 

There  drooped  thy  more  than  mortal  face. 
Oh  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild  ! 

Enfolding  in  one  dear  embrace 
Thy  Saviour  and  Thy  Child ! 

The  rapt  brow  of  the  Desert  John; 

The  awful  glory  of  that  day, 

When  all  the  Father’s  brightness  shone 
Through  manhood’s  veil  of  clay. 


422 


RAPHAEL . 


And,  midst  gray  prophet  forms,  and  wild 
Dark  visions  of  the  days  of  old, 

How  sweetly  woman’s  beauty  smiled 
Through  locks  of  brown  and  gold  ! 

There  Fornarina’s  fair  young  face 
Once  more  upon  her  lover  shone, 

Whose  model  of  an  angel’s  grace 
He  borrowed  from  her  own. 

Slow  passed  that  vision  from  my  view, 

But  not  the  lesson  which  it  taught ; 

The  soft,  calm  shadows  which  it  threw 
Still  rested  on  my  thought : 

The  truth,  that  painter,  bard,  and  sage, 
Even  in  Earth’s  cold  and  changeful  clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 

And  fill  our  Future’s  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 

We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own, 

And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 
We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 


RAPHAEL. 


423 


Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 
The  shadows  which  it  gathered  here, 

And  painted  on  the  eternal  wall 
The  Past  shall  reappear. 

Think  ye  the  notes  of  holy  song 
On  Milton’s  tuneful  ear  have  died? 

Think  ye  that  Raphael’s  angel  throng 
Has  vanished  from  his  side  ? 

Oh  no  : — We  live  our  life  again  : 

Or  warmly  touched  or  coldly  dim 

The  pictures  of  the  Past  remain,  — ■ 
Man’s  works  shall  follow  him ! 


1 


i 


LUCY  HOOPER.  425 


MEMORIALS. 


LUCY  HOOPER.91 

They  tell  me,  Lucy,  thou  art  dead  — 

That  all  of  thee  we  loved  and  cherished. 
Has  with  thy  summer  roses  perished : 
And  left,  as  its  young  beauty  fled, 

An  ashen  memory  in  its  stead  — 

The  twilight  of  a parted  day 

Whose  fading  light  is  cold  and  vain: 

The  heart’s  faint  echo  of  a strain 
Of  low,  sweet  music  passed  away. 

That  true  and  loving  heart  — that  gift 
Of  a mind,  earnest,  clear,  profound, 
Bestowing,  with  a glad  unthrift, 

Its  sunny  light  on  all  around, 

Affinities  which  only  could 

Cleave  to  the  pure,  the  true,  and  good; 

And  sympathies  which  found  no  rest, 

Save  with  the  loveliest  and  best. 

Of  them  — of  thee  remains  there  nought 
But  sorrow  in  the  mourner’s  breast?  — 


426 


LUCY  HOOPER. 


A shadow  in  the  land  of  thought? 

No  ! — Even  my  weak  and  trembling  faith 
Can  lift  for  thee  the  veil  which  doubt 
And  human  fear  have  drawn  about 
The  all-awaiting  scene  of  death. 

Even  as  thou  wast  I see  thee  still ; 

And,  save  the  absence  of  all  ill, 

And  pain  and  weariness,  which  here 
Summoned  the  sigh  or  wrung  the  tear, 
The  same  as  when,  two  summers  back, 
Beside  our  childhood’s  Merrimack, 

I saw  thy  dark  eye  wander  o’er 
Stream,  sunny  upland,  rocky  shore, 

And  heard  thy  low,  soft  voice  alone 
’Midst  lapse  of  waters,  and  the  tone 
Of  pine  leaves  by  the  west-wind  blown, 
There’s  not  a charm  of  soul  or  brow  — 

Of  all  we  knew  and  loved  in  thee  — 

But  lives  in  holier  beauty  now, 

Baptized  in  immortality ! 

Not  mine  the  sad  and  freezing  dream 
Of  souls  that,  with  their  earthly  mould, 
Cast  off  the  loves  and  joys  of  old  — 
Unbodied  — like  a pale  moonbeam, 

As  pure,  as  passionless,  and  cold  ; 

Nor  mine  the  hope  of  Indra’s  son, 

Of  slumbering  in  oblivion’s  rest, 

Life’s  myriads  blending  into  one  — 

In  blank  annihilation  blest ; 


LUCY  HOOPER . 


427 


Dust -atoms  of  the  infinite  — 

Sparks  scattered  from  the  central  light. 

And  winning  back  through  mortal  pain 
Their  old  unconsciousness  again. 

No! — I have  friends  in  Spirit  Land  — 

Not  shadows  in  a shadowy  band, 

Not  others,  but  themselves  are  they. 

And  still  I think  of  them  the  same 
As  when  the  Masters  summons  came ; 

Their  change  — the  holy  morn-light  breaking 
Upon  the  dream-worn  sleeper,  waking  — 

A change  from  twilight  into  day. 

They’ve  laid  thee  midst  the  household  graves. 
Where  father,  brother,  sister  lie ; 

Below  thee  sweep  the  dark  blue  waves, 

Above  thee  bends  the  summer  sky. 

Thy  own  loved  church  in  sadness  read 
Her  solemn  ritual  o’er  thy  head, 

And  blessed  and  hallowed  with  her  prayer 
The  turf  laid  lightly  o’er  thee  there. 

That  church,  whose  rites  and  liturgy, 

Sublime  and  old,  were  truth  to  thee. 
Undoubted  to  thy  bosom  taken, 

As  symbols  of  a faith  unshaken. 

Even  I,  of  simpler  views,  could  fee! 

The  beauty  of  thy  trust  and  zeal ; 

And,  owning  not  thy  creed,  could  see 
How  deep  a truth  it  seemed  to  thee, 


4*8  LUCY  HOOPER. 

And  how  thy  fervent  heart  had  thrown 
O’er  all,  a coloring  of  its  own, 

And  kindled  up,  intense  and  warm, 

A life  in  every  rite  and  form, 

As,  when  on  Chebar’s  banks  of  old, 

The  Hebrew’s  gorgeous  vision  rolled, 

A spirit  filled  the  vast  machine  — 

A life  “ within  the  wheels  ” was  seen. 

Farewell ! A little  time,  and  we 

Who  knew  thee  well,  and  loved  thee  here, 
One  after  one  shall  follow  thee 

As  pilgrims  through  the  gate  of  fear, 
Which  opens  on  eternity. 

Yet  shall  we  cherish  not  the  less 

All  that  is  left  our  hearts  meanwhile ; 

The  memory  of  thy  loveliness 

Shall  round  our  weary  pathway  smile, 

Like  moonlight  when  the  sun  has  set  — 

A sweet  and  tender  radiance  yet. 

Thoughts  of  thy  clear-eyed  sense  of  duty, 
Thy  generous  scorn  of  all  things  wrong  — 
The  truth,  the  strength,  the  graceful  beauty 
Which  blended  in  thy  song. 

All  lovely  things  by  thee  beloved, 

Shall  whisper  to  our  hearts  of  thee ; 

These  green  hills,  where  thy  childhood  roved 
Yon  river  winding  to  the  sea  — 

The  sunset  light  of  autumn  eves 


CHAINING. 


429 


Reflecting  on  the  deep,  still  floods, 
Cloud,  crimson  sky,  and  trembling  leaves 
Of  rainbow-tinted  woods,  — 

These,  in  our  view,  shall  henceforth  take 
A tenderer  meaning  for  thy  sake  ; 

And  all  thou  lovedst  of  earth  and  sky, 
Seem  sacred  to  thy  memory. 


CHANNING.92 

Not  vainly  did  old  poets  tell, 

Nor  vainly  did  old  genius  paint 

God’s  great  and  crowning  miracle  — 

The  hero  and  the  saint ! 

For  even  in  a faithless  day 

Can  we  our  sainted  ones  discern ; 

And  feel,  while  with  them  on  the  way. 

Our  hearts  within  us  burn. 

And  thus  the  common  tongue  and  pen 

Which,  world-wide,  echo  Channing’s  fame, 

As  one  of  Heaven’s  anointed  men, 

Have  sanctified  his  name. 

In  vain  shall  Rome  her  portals  bar, 

And  shut  from  him  her  saintly  prize, 

Whom,  in  the  world’s  great  calendar, 

All  men  shall  canonize. 


4 3° 


CHANNING. 


By  Narragansett’s  sunny  bay, 

Beneath  his  green  embowering  wood, 
To  me  it  seems  but  yesterday 
Since  at  his  side  I stood. 

The  slopes  lay  green  with  summer  rains, 
The  western  wind  blew  fresh  and  free, 
And  glimmered  down  the  orchard  lanes 
The  white  surf  of  the  sea. 

With  us  was  one,  who,  calm  and  true, 
Life’s  highest  purpose  understood, 

And  like  his  blessed  Master  knew 
The  joy  of  doing  good. 

Unlearned,  unknown  to  lettered  fame, 
Yet  on  the  lips  of  England’s  poor 
And  toiling  millions  dwelt  his  name, 
With  blessings  evermore. 

Unknown  to  power  or  place,  yet  where 
The  sun  looks  o’er  the  Carib  sea, 

It  blended  with  the  freeman’s  prayer 
And  song  of  jubilee. 

# 

He  told  of  England’s  sin  and  wrong  — 
The  ills  her  suffering  children  know  — 
The  squalor  of  the  city’s  throng  — 

The  green  field’s  want  and  woe. 


CHANNING. 


431 


O’er  Channing’s  face  the  tenderness 
Of  sympathetic  sorrow  stole 
Like  a still  shadow,  passionless, 

The  sorrow  of  the  soul. 

But,  when  the  generous  Briton  told 

How  hearts  were  answering  to  his  own, 

And  Freedom’s  rising  murmur  rolled 
Up  to  the  dull-eared  throne, 

I saw,  methought,  a glad  surprise 

Thrill  through  that  frail  and  pain-worn  frame, 
And  kindling  in  those  deep,  calm  eyes 
A still  and  earnest  flame. 

His  few,  brief  words  were  such  as  move 
The  human  heart  — the  Faith-sown  seeds 
Which  ripen  in  the  soil  of  love 
To  high  heroic  deeds. 

No  bars  of  sect  or  clime  were  felt  — 

The  Babel  strife  of  tongues  had  ceased,  — 
And  at  one  common  altar  knelt 
The  Quaker  and  the  priest. 

And  not  in  vain  : with  strength  renewed, 

And  zeal  refreshed,  and  hope  less  dim, 

For  that  brief  meeting,  each  pursued 
The  path  allotted  him. 


CHANNING. 


4-3  2 

How  echoes  yet  each  Western  hill 
And  vale  with  Channing’s  dying  word 
How  are  the  hearts  of  freemen  still 
By  that  great  warning  stirred  ! 

The  stranger  treads  his  native  soil, 

And  pleads  with  zeal  unfelt  before 
The  honest  right  of  British  toil, 

The  claim  of  England’s  poor. 

Before  him  time-wrought  barriers  fall, 
Old  fears  subside,  old  hatreds  melt, 
And,  stretching  o’er  the  sea’s  blue  wall, 
The  Saxon  greets  the  Celt. 

The  yeoman  on  the  Scottish  lines, 

The  Sheffield  grinder,  worn  and  grim. 
The  delver  in  the  Cornwall  mines, 

Look  up  with  hope  to  him. 

Swart  smiters  of  the  glowing  steel, 

Dark  feeders  of  the  forge’s  flame, 

Pale  watchers  at  the  loom  and  wheel, 
Repeat  his  honored  name. 

And  thus  the  influence  of, that  hour 
Of  converse  on  Rhode  Island’s  strand- 
Lives  in  the  calm,  resistless  power 
Which  moves  our  fatherland. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  C.  B.  STORES.  433 

God  blesses  still  the  generous  thought, 

And  still  the  fitting  word  He  speeds. 

And  Truth,  at  His  requiring  taught, 

He  quickens  into  deeds. 

Where  is  the  victory  of  the  grave  ? 

What  dust  upon  the  spirit  lies  ? 

God  keeps  the  sacred  life  He  gave  — 

The  prophet  never  dies  ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES 
B.  STORRS.93 

LATE  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  WESTERN  RESERVE 
COLLEGE. 

Thou  hast  fallen  in  thine  armor, 

Thou  martyr  of  the  Lord ! 

With  thy  last  breath  crying — “Onward  ! w 

And  thy  hand  upon  the  sword. 

The  haughty  heart  derideth, 

And  the  sinful  lip  reviles, 

But  the  blessing  of  the  perishing 
Around  thy  pillow  smiles  ! 

When  to  our  cup  of  trembling 
The  added  drop  is  given, 


434  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  C.  B.  STORES 

And  the  long-suspended  thunder 
Falls  terribly  from  Heaven,  — 

When  a new  and  fearful  freedom 
Is  proffered  of  the  Lord 
To  the  slow  consuming  Famine  — 

The  Pestilence  and  Swbrd  ! — 

When  the  refuges  of  Falsehood 
Shall  be  swept  away  in  wrath, 

And  the  temple  shall  be  shaken, 

With  its  idol,  to  the  earth,  — 

Shall  not  thy  words  of  warning 
Be  all  remembered  then? 

And  thy  now  unheeded  message 
Burn  in  the  hearts  of  men? 

Oppression’s  hand  may  scatter 
Its  nettles  on  thy  tomb, 

And  even  Christian  bosoms 
Deny  thy  memory  room  ; 

For  lying  lips  shall  torture 
Thy  mercy  into  crime, 

And  the  slanderer  shall  flourish 
As  the  bay-tree  for  a time. 

But,  where  the  south  wind  lingers 
On  Carolina’s  pines, 

Or,  falls  the  careless  sunbeam 

Down  Georgia’s  golden  mines,  — 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  C.  B.  STORKS.  435 


Where  now  beneath  his  burthen 
The  toiling  slave  is  driven,  — - 
Where  now  a tyrant’s  mockery 
Is  offered  unto  Heaven,  — 

Where  Mammon  hath  its  altars 
Wet  o’er  with  human  blood, 

And  pride  and  lust  debases 
The  workmanship  of  God  — 
There  shall  thy  praise  be  spoken. 
Redeemed  from  Falsehood’s  ban,. 
When  the  fetters  shall  be  broken. 
And  the  slave  shall  be  a man ! 

Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother! 

A thousand  hearts  are  warm  — 

A thousand  kindred  bosoms 
Are  baring  to  the  storm. 

What  though  red-handed  Violence 
With  secret  Fraud  combine, 

The  wall  of  fire  is  round  us  — 

Our  Present  Help  was  thine ! 

Lo  — the  waking  up  of  nations. 
From  Slavery’s  fatal  sleep  — 

The  murmur  of  a Universe  — 

Deep  calling  unto  Deep  ! 

Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother ! 

On  every  wind  of  heaven 


436 


LINES. 


The  onward  cheer  and  summons 
Of  Freed6m’s  voice  is  given! 

Glory  to  God  forever  ! 

Beyond  the  despot’s  will 
The  soul  of  Freedom  liveth 
Imperishable  still. 

The  words  which  thou  hast  uttered 
Are  of  that  soul  a part, 

And  the  good  seed  thou  ha&t  scattered 
Is  springing  from  the  heart 

In  the  evil  days  before  us, 

And  the  trials  yet  to  come  — 

In  the  shadow  of  the  prison, 

Or  the  cruel  martyrdom  — 

We  will  think  of  thee,  O brother ! 

And  thy  sainted  name  shall  be 
In  the  blessing  of  the  captive, 

And  the  anthem  of  the  free. 


LINES, 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  S.  OLIVER  TORRE Y,  SECRE- 
TARY OF  THE  BOSTON  YOUNG  MEN’S  ANTI- 
SLAVERY SOCIETY. 

Gone  before  us,  O our  brother, 

To  the  spirit-land ! 


LINES. 


437 


Vainly  look  we  for  another 
In  thy  place  to  stand. 

Who  shall  offer  youth  and  beauty 
On  the  wasting  shrine 

Of  a stern  and  lofty  duty, 

With  a faith  like  thine? 

Oh ! thy  gentle  smile  of  greeting 
Who  again  shall  see? 

Who  amidst  the  solemn  meeting 
Gaze  again  on  thee  ? — 

Who,  when  peril  gathers  o’er  us, 
Wear  so  calm  a brow? 

Who,  with  evil  men  before  us, 

So  serene  as  thou? 

Early  hath  the  spoiler  found  thee, 
Brother  of  our  love  ! 

Autumn’s  faded  earth  around  thee, 
And  its  storms  above  ! 

Evermore  that  turf  lie  lightly, 

And,  with  future  showers, 

O’er  thy  slumbers  fresh  and  brightly 
Blow  the  summer  flowers  ! 

In  the  locks  thy  forehead  gracing, 
Not  a silvery  streak  ; 

Nor  a line  of  sorrow’s  tracing 
On  thy  fair  young  cheek  ; 


438 


LINES. 


Eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  roses. 

Such  as  Hylas  wore  — 

Over  all  that  curtain  closes, 

Which  shall  rise  no  more ! 

Will  the  vigil  Love  is  keeping 
Round  that  grave  of  thine, 
Mournfully,  like  Jazer  weeping 
Over  Sibmah’s  vine  94  — 

Will  the  pleasant  memories,  swelling 
Gentle  hearts,  of  thee, 

In  the  spirit’s  distant  dwelling 
All  unheeded  be? 

If  the  spirit  ever  gazes, 

From  its  journeyings,  back; 

If  the  immortal  ever  traces 
O’er  its  mortal  track  ; 

Wilt  thou  not,  O brother,  meet  us 
Sometimes  on  our  way, 

And,  in  hours  of  sadness,  greet  us 
As  a spirit  may  ? 

Peace  be  with  thee.  O our  brother, 

In  the  spirit-land ! 

Vainly  look  we  for  another 
In  thy  place  to  stand. 

Unto  Truth  and  Freedom  giving 
All  thy  early  powers, 

Be  thy  virtues  with  the  living, 

And  thy  spirit  ours ! 


A LAMENT. 


439 


A LAMENT. 

u The  parted  spirit, 

Knoweth  it  not  our  sorrow  ? Answereth  not 
Its  blessing  to  our  tears  ? ” 

The  circle  is  broken  — one  seat  is  forsaken,  — 
One  bud  from  the  tree  of  our  friendship  is 
shaken  — 

One  heart  from  among  us  no  longer  shall  thrill 
With  joy  in  our  gladness,  or  grief  in  our  ill. 

Weep  ! — lonely  and  lowly,  are  slumbering  now 
The  light  of  her  glances,  the  pride  of  her  brow, 
Weep ! — sadly  and  long  shall  we  listen  in  vain 
To  hear  the  soft  tones  of  her  welcome  again. 

Give  our  tears  to  the  dead ! F or  humanity’s 
claim 

From  its  silence  and  darkness  is  ever  the  same; 
The  hope  of  that  World  whose  existence  is  bliss 
May  not  stifle  the  tears  of  the  mourners  of  this. 

For,  oh  ! if  one  glance  the  freed  spirit  can  throw 
On  the  scene  of  its  troubled  probation  below, 
Than  the  pride  of  the  marble  — the  pomp  of 
the  dead  — 

To  that  glance  will  be  dearer  the  tears  which 
we  shed. 


440 


A LAMENT. 


Oh,  who  can  forget  the  mild  light  of  her  smile, 

Over  lips  moved  with  music  and  feeling  the 
while  — 

The  eye’s  deep  enchantment,  dark,  dream-like, 
and  clear, 

In  the  glow  of  its  gladness  — the  shade  of  its 
tear. 

And  the  charm  of  her  features,  while  over  the 
whole 

Played  the  hues  of  the  heart  and  the  sunshine 
of  soul,  — 

And  the  tones  of  her  voice,  like  the  music  which 
seems 

Murmured  low  in  our  ears  by  the  Angel  of 
dreams ! 

But  holier  and  dearer  our  memories  hold 

Those  treasures  of  feeling,  more  precious  than 
gold  — 

The  love  and  the  kindness  and  pity  which  gave 

Fresh  flowers  for  the  bridal,  green  wreaths  for 
the  grave  ! 

The  heart  ever  open  to  Charity’s  claim, 

Unmoved  from  its  purpose  by  censure  and 
blame. 

While  vainly  alike  on  her  eye  and  her  ear 

Fell  the  scorn  of  the  heartless,  the  jesting  and 
jeer. 


DANIEL  WHEELER. 


441 


How  true  to  our  hearts  was  that  beautiful 
sleeper ! 

With  smiles  for  the  joyful,  with  tears  for  the 
weeper ! — 

Yet,  evermore  prompt,  whether  mournful  or 

gay> 

With  warnings  in  love  to  the  passing  astray. 

For,  though  spotless  herself,  she  could  sorrow 
for  them 

Who  sullied  with  evil  the  spirit’s  pure  gem ; 

And  a sigh  or  a tear  could  the  erring  reprove, 

And  the  sting  of  reproof  was  still  tempered  by 
love. 

As  a cloud  of  the  sunset,  slow  melting  in  heaven* 

As  a star  that  is  lost  when  the  daylight  is  given* 

As  a glad  dream  of  slumber,  which  wakens  in 
bliss, 

She  hath  passed  to  the  world  of  the  holy  from 
this. 


DANIEL  WHEELER.05 

Oh,  dearly  loved ! 

And  worthy  of  our  love  ! — No  more 
Thy  aged  form  shall  rise  before 
The  hushed  and  waiting  worshipper, 


442 


DANIEL  WHEELER. 


In  meek  obedience  utterance  giving 
To  words  of  truth,  so  fresh  and  living, 
That,  even  to  the  inward  sense, 

They  bore  unquestioned  evidence 
Of  an  anointed  Messenger ! 

Or,  bowing  down  thy  silver  hair 
In  reverent  awfulness  of  prayer  — 

The  world,  its  time  and  sense,  shut  out-* 
The  brightness  of  Faith’s  holy  trance 
Gathered  upon  thy  countenance,  " 

As  if  each  lingering  cloud  of  doubt  — 
The  cold,  dark  shadows  resting  here 
In  Time’s  unluminous  atmosphere  — 

Were  lifted  by  an  angel’s  hand, 

And  through  them  on  thy  spiritual  eye 
Shone  down  the  blessedness  on  high, 

The  glory  of  the  Better  Land  ! 

The  oak  has  fallen ! 

Wliile,  meet  for  no  good  work,  the  vine 
May  yet  its  worthless  branches  twine. 

Who  knoweth  not  that  with  thee  fell 
A great  man  in  our  Israel? 

Fallen,  while  thy  loins  were  girded  still, 
Thy  feet  with  Zion’s  dews  still  wet, 

And  in  thy  hand  retaining  yet 
The  pilgrim’s  staff  and  scallop-shell ! 
Unharmed  and  safe,  where,  wild  and  free, 
Across  the  Neva’s  cold  morass 


DANIEL  WHEELER . 


443 


The  breezes  from  the  Frozen  Sea 
With  winter’s  arrowy  keenness  pass ; 

Or,  where  the  unwarning  tropic  gale 
Smote  to  the  waves  thy  tattered  sail, 

Or,  where  the  noon-hour’s  fervid  heat 
Against  Tahiti’s  mountains  beat ; 

The  same  mysterious  hand  which  gave 
Deliverance  upon  land  and  wave, 

Tempered  for  thee  the  blasts  which  blew 
Ladaga’s  frozen  surface  o’er, 

And  blessed  for  thee  the  baleful  dew 
Of  evening  upon  Eimeo’s  shore, 

Beneath  this  sunny  heaven  of  ours, 

Midst  our  soft  airs  and  opening  flowers 
Hath  given  thee  a grave  ! 

His  will  be  done, 

Who  seeth  not  as  man,  whose  way 
Is  not  as  ours  ! — ’Tis  well  with  thee ! 

Nor  anxious  doubt  nor  dark  dismay 
Disquieted  thy  closing  day. 

But,  evermore,  thy  soul  could  say, 

“ My  Father  careth  still  for  me  ! ” 

Called  from  thy  hearth  and  home  — from  her9 
The  last  bud  on  thy  household  tree, 

The  last  dear  one  to  minister 
In  duty  and  in  love  to  thee, 

From  all  which  nature  holdeth  dear, 

Feeble  with  years  and  worn  with  pain, 


444  DANIEL  WHEELER . 

To  seek  our  distant  land  again, 

Bound  in  the  spirit,  yet  unknowing 

The  things  which  should  befall  thee  here. 
Whether  for  labor  or  for  death, 

In  childlike  trust  serenely  going 
To  that  last  trial  of  thy  faith ! 

Oh,  far  away, 

Where  never  shines  our  Northern  star 
On  that  dark  waste  which  Balboa  saw 
From  Darien’s  mountains  stretching  far, 

So  strange,  heaven-broad,  and  lone,  that  there 
With  forehead  to  its  damp  wind  bare 
He  bent  his  mailed  knee  in  awe ; 

In  many  an  isle  whose  coral  feet 
The  surges  of  that  ocean  beat, 

In  thy  palm  shadows,  Oahu, 

And  Honolulu’s  silver  bay, 

Amidst  Owhyhee’s  hills  of  blue, 

And  taro-plains  of  Tooboonai, 

Are  gentle  hearts,  which  long  shall  be 
Sad  as  our  own  at  thought  of  thee, — 

Worn  sowers  of  Truth’s  holy  seed, 

Whose  souls  in  weariness  and  need 

Were  strengthened  and  refreshed  by  thine, 
For,  blessed  by  our  Father’s  hand, 

Was  thy  deep  love  and  tender  care, 

Thy  ministry  and  fervent  prayer  — 

Grateful  as  Eshcol’s  clustered  vine 
To  Israel  in  a weary  land  ! 


DANIEL  WHEELER. 


445 


And  they  who  drew 
By  thousands  round  thee,  in  the  hour 
Of  prayerful  waiting,  hushed  and  deep, 

That  He  who  bade  the  islands  keep 
Silence  before  Him,  might  renew 

Their  strength  with  His  unslumbering  power, 
They  too  shall  mourn  that  thou  art  gone, 

That  never  more  thy  aged  lip 
Shall  soothe  the  weak,  the  erring  warn, 

Of  those  who  first,  rejoicing,  heard 
Through  thee  the  Gospel’s  glorious  word  — 
Seals  of  thy  true  apostleship. 

And,  if  the  brightest  diadem, 

Whose  gems  of  glory  purely  burn 
Around  the  ransomed  ones  in  bliss, 

Be  evermore  reserved  for  them 

Who  here,  through  toil  and  sorrow,  turn 
Many  to  righteousness,  — 

May  we  not  think  of  thee,  as  wearing 
That  starlight  crown  of  light,  and  bearing, 
Amidst  Heaven’s  white  and  blissful  band, 

The  fadeless  palm-branch  in  thy  hand ; 

And  joining  with  a seraph’s  tongue 
In  that  new  song  the  elders  sung, 

Ascribing  to  its  blessed  Giver 
Thanksgiving,  love,  and  praise  forever! 

Farewell ! 

And  though  the  ways  of  Zion  mourn 


44&  DANIEL  WHEELER . 

When  her  strong  ones  are  called  away, 
Who  like  thyself  have  calmly  borne 
The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 

Yet  He  who  slumbereth  not  nor  sleepeth 
His  ancient  watch  around  us  keepeth; 
Still  sent  from  His  creating  hand, 

New  witnesses  for  Truth  shall  stand, - 
New  instruments  to  sound  abroad 
The  Gospel  of  a risen  Lord ; 

To  gather  to  the  fold  once  more, 

The  desolate  and  gone  astray, 

The  scattered  of  a cloudy  day, 

And  Zion’s  broken  walls  restore  ! 

And,  through  the  travail  and  the  toil 
Of  true  obedience,  minister 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  the  oil 
Of  joy  for  mourning,  unto  her  ! 

So  shall  her  holy  bounds  increase 
With  walls  of  praise  and  gates  of  peace 
So  shall  the  Vine,  which  martyr  tears 
And  blood  sustained  in  other  years, 
With  fresher  life  be  clothed  upon ; 
And  to  the  world  in  beauty  show 
Like  the  rose-plant  of  Jericho, 

And  glorious  as  Lebanon ! 


DANIEL  NEALL. 


447 


DANIEL  NEALL. 

SIXTH  MONTH  6TH,  1 846. 


I. 

Friend  of  the  Slave,  and  yet  the  friend  of  all; 
Lover  of  peace,  yet  ever  foremost  when 
The  need  of  battling  Freedom  called  for  men 
To  plant  the  banner  on  the  outer  wall ; 

Gentle  and  kindly,  ever  at  distress 
Melted  to  more  than  woman’s  tenderness. 

Yet  firm  and  steadfast,  at  his  duty’s  post 
Fronting  the  violence  of  a maddened  host, 

Like  some  gray  rock  from  which  the  waves  are 
tossed ! 

Knowing  his  deeds  of  love,  men  questioned  not 
The  faith  of  one  whose  walk  and  word  were 
right  — 

Who  tranquilly  in  Life’s  great  task-field  wrought. 
And,  side  by  side  with  evil,  scarcely  caught 
A stain  upon  his  pilgrim  garb  of  white : 
Prompt  to  redress  another’s  wrong,  his  own 
Leaving  to  Time  and  Truth  and  Penitence  alone. 


n. 

Such  was  our  friend.  Formed  on  the  good  old 

plan, 


448 


TO  MY  FRIEND. 


A true  and  brave  and  downright  honest  man  ! — 
He  blew  no  trumpet  in  the  market-place, 

Nor  in  the  church  with  hypocritic  face 
Supplied  with  cant  the  lack  of  Christian  grace  ; 
Loathing  pretence,  he  did  with  cheerful  will 
What  others  talked  of  while  their  hands  were 
still : 

And,  while  “ Lord,  Lord  ! ” the  pious  tyrants 
cried, 

Who,  in  the  poor,  their  Master  crucified, 

His  daily  prayer,  far  better  understood 
In  acts  than  words,  was  simply  doing  good. 

So  calm,  so  constant  was  his  rectitude, 

That,  by  his  loss  alone  we  know  its  worth, 

And  feel  how  true  a man  has  walked  with  us  on 
earth. 


TO  MY  FRIEND  ON  THE  DEATH 
OF  HIS  SISTER.96 

Thine  is  a grief,  the  depth  of  which  another 
May  never  know ; 

Yet,  o’er  the  waters,  O,  my  stricken  brother! 

To  thee  I go. 

I lean  my  heart  unto  thee,  sadly  folding 
Thy  hand  in  mine ; 

With  even  the  weakness  of  my  soul  upholding 
The  strength  of  thine. 


TO  MY  FRIEND . 


449 


I never  knew,  like  thee,  the  dear  departed ; 

I stood  not  by 

When,  in  calm  trust,  the  pure  and  tranquil- 
hearted 

Lay  down  to  die. 

And  on  thy  ears  my  words  of  weak  condoling 
Must  vainly  fall : 

The  funeral  bell  which  in  thy  heart  is  tolling, 
Sounds  over  all ! 

I will  not  mock  thee  with  the  poor  world’s 
common 

And  heartless  phrase, 

Nor  wrong  the  memory  of  a sainted  woman 
With  idle  praise. 

With  silence  only  as  their  benediction, 

God’s  angels  come 

Where,  in  the  shadow  of  a great  affliction, 

The  soul  sits  dumb  ! 

Yet,  would  I say  what  thy  own  heart  approveth : 
Our  Father’s  will, 

Calling  to  Him  the  dear  one  whom  He  loveth, 

Is  mercy  still. 

Not  upon  thee  or  thine  the  solemn  angel 
Hath  evil  wrought : 

Her  funeral  anthem  is  a glad  evangel  — 

The  good  die  not ! 


45° 


GONE . 


God  calls  our  loved  ones,  but  we  lose  not  wholly 
What  He  hath  given  ; 

They  live  on  earth,  in  thought  and  deed,  as  truly 
As  in  His  heaven. 

And  she  is  with  thee  ; in  thy  path  of  trial 
She  walketh  yet ; 

Still  with  the  baptism  of  thy  self-denial 
Her  locks  are  wet. 

Up,  then,  my  brother ! Lo,  the  fields  of  harvest 
Lie  white  in  view ! 

She  lives  and  loves  thee,  and  the  God  thou 
servest 

To  both  is  true. 

Thrust  in  thy  sickle ! — England’s  toil-worn 
peasants 
Thy  call  abide ; 

And  she  thou  mourn’st,  a pure  and  holy  presence. 
Shall  glean  beside ! 


GONE. 

Another  hand  is  beckoning  us, 
Another  call  is  given ; 

And  glows  once  more  with  Angel-steps 
The  path  which  reaches  Heaven. 


GONE. 


45* 


Our  young  and  gentle  friend  whose  smile 
Made  brighter  summer  hours, 

Amid  the  frosts  of  autumn  time 
Has  left  us,  with  the  flowers. 

No  paling  of  the  cheek  of  bloom 
Forewarned  us  of  decay ; 

No  shadow  from  the  Silent  Land 
Fell  round  our  sister’s  way. 

The  light  of  her  young  life  went  down, 

As  sinks  behind  the  hill 
The  glory  of  a setting  star  — 

Clear,  suddenly,  and  still. 

As  pure  and  sweet,  her  fair  brow  seemed  — 
Eternal  as  the  sky ; 

And  like  the  brook’s  low  song,  her  voice  — 
A sound  which  could  not  die. 

And  half  we  deemed  she  needed  not 
The  changing  of  her  sphere, 

To  give  to  Heaven  a Shining  One, 

Who  walked  an  Angel  here. 

The  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 
Fell  on  us  like  the  dew ; 

And  good  thoughts,  where  her  footsteps 
pressed, 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 


4S2 


GONE. 


Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 
Were  in  her  very  look  ; 

We  read  her  face,  as  one  who  reads 
A true  and  holy  book : 

The  measure  of  a blessed  hymn, 

To  which  our  hearts  could  move ; 

The  breathing  of  an  inward  psalm  ; ; 

A canticle  of  love. 

We  miss  her  in  the  place  of  prayer, 

And  by  the  hearth-fire’s  light ; 

We  pause  beside  her  door  to  hear 
Once  more  her  sweet  ‘ ‘ Good-night ! n 

There  seems  a shadow  on  the  day, 

Her  smile  no  longer  cheers  ; 

A dimness  on  the  stars  of  night, 

Like  eyes  that  look  through  tears. 

Alone  unto  our  Father’s  will 
One  thought  hath  reconciled  ; 

That  He  whose  love  exceedeth  ours 
Hath  taken  home  His  child. 

Fold  her,  oh  Father!  in  thine  arms, 
And  let  her  henceforth  be 

A messenger  of  love  between 
Our  human  hearts  and  Thee. 


GONE. 


453 


Still  let  her  mild  rebuking  stand 
Between  us  and  the  wrong, 

And  her  dear  memory  serve  to  make 
Our  faith  in  Goodness  strong. 

And  grant  that  she  who,  trembling,  here 
Distrusted  all  her  powers, 

May  welcome  to  her  holier  home 
The  well  beloved  of  ours. 


u. : 


THE  CHARTER-BREAKERS.  455 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER- 
BREAKERS.97 

In  Westminster’s  royal  halls, 

Robed  in  their  pontificals, 

England’s  ancient  prelates  stood 
For  the  people’s  right  and  good. 

Closed  around  the  waiting  crowd, 

Dark  and  still,  like  winter’s  cloud ; 

King  and  council,  lord  and  knight, 

Squire  and  yeoman,  stood  in  sight  — 

Stood  to  hear  the  priest  rehearse, 

In  God’s  name,  the  Church’s  curse, 

By  the  tapers  round  them  lit, 

Slowly,  sternly  uttering  it. 

“ Right  of  voice  in  framing  laws, 

Right  of  peers  to  try  each  cause ; 

Peasant  homestead,  mean  and  smal^ 

Sacred  as  the  monarch’s  hall  — 


45 6 THE  CHARTER-BREAKERS. 


“ Whoso  lays  his  hand  on  these, 
England’s  ancient  liberties  — 

Whoso  breaks,  by  word  or  deed, 
England’s  vow  at  Runnymede  — 

“ Be  he  Prince  or  belted  knight, 
Whatsoe’er  his  rank  or  might. 

If  the  highest,  then  the  worst, 

Let  him  live  and  die  accursed. 

“ Thou,  who  to  thy  Church  hast  given 
Keys  alike,  of  hell  and  heaven, 

Make  our  word  and  witness  sure, 

Let  the  curse  we  speak  endure  ! ” 

Silent,  while  that  curse  was  said, 

Every  bare  and  listening  head 
Bowed  in  reverent  awe,  and  then 
All  the  people  said,  Amen  ! 

Seven  times  the  bells  have  tolled, 

For  the  centuries  gray  and  old, 

Since  that  stoled  and  mitred  band 
Cursed  the  tyrants  of  their  land. 

Since  the  priesthood,  like  a tower, 
Stood  between  the  poor  and  power; 
And  the  wronged  and  trodden  down 
Blessed  the  abbot’s  shaven  crown. 


THE  CHAR  TER-B  RE  AKERS . 45  7 


Gone,  thank  God,  their  wizard  spell, 
Lost,  their  keys  of  heaven  and  hell ; 

Yet  I sigh  for  men  as  bold 
As  tho^e  bearded  priests  of  old. 

Now,  too  oft  the  priesthood  wait 
At  the  threshold  ^ the  state  — 

Waiting  for  the  beck  and  nod 
Of  its  power  as  law  and  God. 

Fraud  exults,  while  solemn  words 
Sanctify  his  stolen  hoards  ; 

Slavery  laughs,  while  ghostly  lips 
Bless  his  manacles  and  whips. 

Not  on  them  the  poor  rely, 

Not  to  them  looks  liberty, 

Who  with  fawning  falsehood  cower 
To  the  wrong,  when  clothed  with  power. 

Oh  ! to  see  them  meanly  cling, 

Round  the  master,  round  the  king, 
Sported  with,  and  sold  and  bought  — 
Pitifuller  sight  is  not  ! 

Tell  me  not  that  this  must  be : 

God’s  true  priest  is  always  free ; 

Free,  the  needed  truth  to  speak, 

Right  the  wronged,  and  raise  the  weak* 


458  the  charter-breakers. 

Not  to  fawn  on  wealth  and  state, 
Leaving  Lazarus  at  the  gate  — 

Not  to  peddle  creeds  like  wares  — 
Not  to  mutter  hireling  prayers  — ' 

Not  to  paint  the  new  life’s  bliss 
On  the  sable  ground  of  this  — 
Golden  streets  for  idle  knave, 
Sabbath  rest  for  weary  slave  ! 

Not  for  words  and  works  like  these, 
Priest  of  God,  thy  mission  is ; 

But  to  make  earth’s  desert  glad, 

In  its  Eden  greenness  clad ; 

And  to  level  manhood  bring 
Lord  and  peasant,  serf  and  king ; 
And  the  Christ  of  God  to  find 
In  the  humblest  of  thy  kind  ! 

Thine  to  work  as  well  as  pray 
Clearing  thorny  wrongs  away ; 
Plucking  up  the  weeds  of  sin, 

Letting  heaven’s  warm  sunshine  in  — 

\ 

Watching  on  the  hills  of  Faith ; 
Listening  what  the  spirit  saith, 

Of  the  dim-seen  light  afar, 

Growing  like  a nearing  star. 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE.  459 


God’s  interpreter  art  thou, 

To  the  waiting  ones  below ; 

’Twixt  them  and  its  light  midway 
Heralding  the  better  day  — 

Catching  gleams  of  temple  spires, 
Hearing  notes  of  angel  choirs, 
Where,  as  yet  unseen  of  them, 
Comes  the  New  Jerusalem  ! 

Like  the  seer  of  Patmos  gazing, 
On  the  glory  downward  blazing ; 
Till  upon  Earth’s  grateful  sod 
Rests  the  City  of  our  God ! 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE. 

SUGGESTED  BY  A DAGUERREOTYPE  FROM  A 
FRENCH  ENGRAVING. 

Beams  of  noon,  like  burning  lances,  through 
the  tree-tops  flash  and  glisten, 

As  she  stands  before  her  lover,  with  raised  face 
to  look  and  listen. 

Dark,  but  comely,  like  the  maiden  in  the 
ancient  Jewish  song: 

Scarcely  has  the  toil  of  task-fields  done  her 
graceful  beauty  wrong. 


460  THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE . 


He,  the  strong  one  and  the  manly,  with  the 
vassal’s  garb  and  hue, 

Holding  still  his  spirit’s  birthright,  to  his  higher 
nature  true ; 

Hiding  deep  the  strengthening  purpose  of  a 
freeman  in  his  heart, 

As  the  greegree  holds  his  Fetich  from  the  white 
man’s  gaze  apart. 

Ever  foremost  of  his  comrades,  when  the 
driver’s  morning  horn 

Calls  away  to  stifling  mill-house,  to  the  nelds  of 
cane  and  corn ; 

Fall  the  keen  and  burning  lashes,  never  on  his 
back  or  limb ; 

Scarce  with  look  or  word  of  censure,  turns  the 
driver  unto  him. 

Yet,  his  brow  is  always  thoughtful,  and  his  eye 
is  hard  and  stern ; 

Slavery’s  last  and  humblest  lesson,  he  has  never 
deigned  to  learn. 

And,  at  evening,  when  his  comrades  dance 
before  their  master’s  door, 

Folding  arms  and  knitting  forehead,  stands  he 
silent  evermore. 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE . 461 

God  be  praised  for  every  instinct  which  rebels 
against  a lot, 

Where  the  brute  survives  the  human,  and  man’s 
upright  form  is  not ! 

\ X 

As  the  serpent-like  bejuco  winds  his  spiral  fold 
on  fold, 

Round  the  tall  and  stately  ceiba,  till  it  withers 
in  its  hold  ; — 

Slow  decays  the  forest  monarch,  closer  girds  the 
fell  embrace, 

Till  the  tree  is  seen  no  longer,  and  the  vine  is 
in  his  place  — 

So  a base  and  bestial  nature,  round  the  vassal’s 
manhood  twines, 

And  the  spirit  wastes  beneath  it,  like  the  ceiba 
choked  with  vines. 

God  is  Love,  saith  the  Evangel ; and  our  world 
of  woe  and  sin 

Is  made  light  and  happy  only,  when  a Love  is 
shining  in. 

Ye  whose  lives  are  free  as  sunshine,  finding 
wheresoe’er  ye  roam, 

Smiles  of  welcome,  looks  of  kindness,  making 
all  the  world  like  home ; 


462  THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE. 

In  the  veins  of  whose  affections,  kindred  blood 
is  but  a part, 

Of  one  kindly  current  throbbing  from  the  uni- 
versal heart ; 

Can  ye  know  the  deeper  meaning  of  a love  in 
Slavery  nursed, 

Last  flower  of  a lost  Eden,  blooming  in  that 
Soil  accursed? 

Love  of  Home,  and  Love  of  Woman !—  dear  to 
all,  but  doubly  dear 

To  the  heart  whose  pulses  elsewhere  measure 
only  hate  and  fear. 

All  around  the  desert  circles,  underneath  a 
brazen  sky, 

Only  one  green  spot  remaining  where  the  dew 
is  never  dry  ! 

From  the  horror  of  that  desert,  from  its  atmos- 
phere of  hell, 

Turns  the  fainting  spirit  thither,  as  the  diver 
seeks  his* bell. 

’Tis  the  fervid  tropic  noontime ; faint  and  low 
the  sea- waves  beat ; 

Hazy  rise  the  inland  mountains  through  the  glim- 
mer of  the  heat,  — 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE . 463 

Where,  through  mingled  leaves  and  blossoms 
arrowy  sunbeams  flash  and  glisten, 

Speaks  her  lover  to  the  slave  girl,  and  she  lifts 
her  head  to  listen : — 

44  We  shall  live  as  slaves  no  longer  ! Freedom’s 
hour  is  close  at  hand ! 

Rocks  her  bark  upon  the  waters,  rests  the  boat 
upon  the  strand  ! 

44  I have  seen  the  Haytien  Captain ; I have  seen 
his  swarthy  crew, 

Haters  of  the  pallid  faces,  to  their  race  and  color 
true. 

4 4 They  have  sworn  to  wait  our  coming  till  the 
night  has  passed  its  noon, 

And  the  gray  and  darkening  waters  roll  above 
the  sunken  moon  ! ” 

Oh  ! the  blessed  hope  of  freedom ! how  with  joy 
and  glad  surprise, 

For  an  instant  throbs  her  bosom,  for  an  instant 
beam  her  eyes  ! 

But  she  looks  across  the  valley,  where  her 
mother’s  hut  is  seen. 

Through  the  snowy  bloom  of  coffee,  and  the 
lemon  leaves  so  green. 


464  THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE . 


And  she  answers,  sad  and  earnest:  “It  were 
wrong  for  thee  to  stay ; 

God  hath  heard  thy  prayer  for  freedom,  and  his 
finger  points  the  way. 

“ Well  I know  with  what  endurance,  for  the  sake 
of  me  and  mine, 

Thou  hast  borne  too  long  a burden,  never  meant 
for  souls  like  thine. 

“Go;  and  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  our 
last  farewell  is  o’er, 

Kneeling  on  our  place  of  parting,  I will  bless 
thee  from  the  shore. 

“ But  for  me,  my  mother,  lying  on  her  sick-bed 
all  the  day, 

Lifts  her  weary  head  to  watch  me,  coming 
through  the  twilight  gray. 

“ Should  I leave  her  sick  and  helpless,  even 
freedom,  shared  with  thee, 

Would  be  sadder  far  than  bondage,  lonely  toil, 
and  stripes  to  me. 

“ For  my  heart  would  die  within  me,  and  my 
brain  would  soon  be  wild  : 

I should  hear  my  mother  calling  through  the  twi- 
light for  her  child  ! ” 


THE  CRISIS . 4^5 

Blazing  upward  from  the  ocean,  shines  the  sun 
of  morning  time,  * 

Through  the  coffee  trees  in  blossom,  and  green 
hedges  of  the  lime. 

Side  by  side,  amidst  the  slave  gang,  toil  the 
lover  and  the  maid  ; 

Wherefore  looks  he  o’er  the  waters,  leaning  for- 
ward  on  his  spade  ? 

Sadly  looks  he,  deeply  sighs  he : ’tis  the  Hay- 
tien’s  sail  he  sees, 

Like  a white  cloud  of  the  mountains,  driven  sea- 
ward by  the  breeze  ! 

But  his  arm  a light  hand  presses,  and  he  hears 
a low  voice  call : 

Hate  of  Slavery,  hope  of  Freedom,  Love  is 
mightier  than  all. 


THE  CRISIS. 

WRITTEN  ON  LEARNING  THE  TERMS  OF  THE 
TREATY  WITH  MEXICO. 

Across  the  Stony  Mountains,  o’er  the  desert’s 
drouth  and  sand, 

The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  Western 
Ocean’s  strand ; 


466  THE  CRISIS. 

From  slumberous  Timpanogos,  to  Gila,  wild  and 
free,  * 

Flowing  down  from  Neuvo-Leon  to  California’s 
sea ; 

And  from  the  mountains  of  the  East,  to  Santa 
Rosa’s  shore, 

The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air  no  more. 

O Vale  of  Rio  Bravo  ! Let  thy  simple  children 
weep ; 

Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids  of 
Pecos  keep ; 

Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre’s 
pines, 

And  Algodones  toll  her  bells  amidst  her  corn 
and  vines  ; 

For  lo!  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with  eager 
eyes  of  gain, 

Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on  broad 
Salada’s  plain. 

Let  Sacramento’s  herdsmen  heed  what  sound 
the  winds  bring  down, 

Of  footsteps  on  the  crisping  snow,  from  cold 
Nevada’s  crown ! 

Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with  rein  of 
travel  slack, 

And,  bending  o’er  his  saddle,  leaves  the  sunrise 
at  his  back ; 


THE  CRISIS.  467 

By  many  a lonely  river,  and  gorge  of  fire  and 
pine, 

On  many  a wintry  hill-top,  his  nightly  camp-fires 
shine. 

O countrymen  and  brothers ! that  land  of  lake 
and  plain, 

Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys  fat  with 
grain ; 

Of  mountains  white  with  winter,  looking  down- 
ward, cold,  serene, 

On  their  feet  with  spring-vines  tangled  and 
lapped  in  softest  green  ; 

Swift  through  whose  black  volcanic  gates,  o’er 
many  a sunny  vale, 

Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison’s 
dusty  trail  ! 

Great  spaces  yet  untravelled,  great  lakes  whose 
mystic  shores 

The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of  Saxon 
oars ; 

Great  herds  that  wander  all  unwatched,  wild 
steeds  that  none  have  tamed, 

Strange  fish  in  unknown  streams,  and  birds  the 
Saxon  never  named ; 

Deep  mines,  dark  mountain  crucibles,  where 
Nature’s  chemic  powers 

Work  out  the  Great  Designer’s  will : — all  these 
ye  say  are  ours  ! 


468  THE  CRISIS. 

Forever  ours  ! for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the  burden 
lies ; 

God’s  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung  across 
the  skies. 

Shall  Justice,  Truth,  and  Freedom,  turn  the 
poised  and  trembling  scale  ? 

Or  shall  the  Evil  triumph,  and  robber  Wrong 
prevail  ? 

Shall  the  broad  land  o’er  which  our  flag  in  starry 
splendor  waves, 

Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear  the 
tread  of  slaves? 

The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East,  of  which  the 
prophets  told, 

And  brightens  up  the  sky  of  Time  the  Christian 
Age  of  Gold : 

Old  Might  to  Right  is  yielding,  battle  blade  to 
clerkly  pen, 

Earth’s  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and  her  serfs 
stand  up  as  men  ; 

The  isles  rejoice  together,  in  a day  are  nations 
born, 

And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and  by  Stam- 
boul’s  Golden  Horn ! 

Is  this,  O countrymen  of  mine ! a day  for  us  to 
sow 

The  soil  of  new-gained  empire  with  slavery’s 
seeds  of  woe? 


THE  CRISIS . 469 

To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  old  world’s 
cast-off  crime, 

Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth,  from 
the  tired  lap  of  Time? 

To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost  nations 
ran, 

And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and  wrong 
of  man  ? 

Great  Heaven!  Is  this  our  mission?  End  in 
this  the  prayers  and  tears  ? 

The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our  younger, 
better  years  ? 

Still,  as  the  old  world  rolls  in  light,  shall  ours 
in  shadow  turn, 

A beamless  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through  outer 
darkness  borne? 

Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a black- 
ness in  the  air? 

Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened,  the  long 
wail  of  despair? 

The  Crisis  presses  on  us ; face  to  face  with  us 
it  stands, 

With  solemn  lips  of  question,  like  the  Sphinx 
in  Egypt’s  sands ! 

This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web  of  Fate 
we  spin ; 

This  day  for  all  hereafter  choose  we  holiness  or 
sin  ; 


47° 


THE  CRISIS. 


Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal’s  cloudy 
crown, 

We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts  of 
cursing  down  ! 

By  all  for  which  the  martyrs  bore  their  agony 
and  shame ; 

By  all  the  warning  words  of  truth  with  which 
the  prophets  came ; 

By  the  Future  which  awaits  us ; by  all  the  hopes 
which  cast 

Their  faint  and  trembling  beams  across  the 
blackness  of  the  Past ; 

And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who  for 
Earth’s  freedom  died, 

O,  my  people  ! O,  my  brothers  ! let  us  choose 
the  righteous  side. 

So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful  on  his 
way, 

To  wed  Penobscot’s  waters  to  San  Francisco’s 
bay ; 

To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and  sow  the 
vales  with  grain  ; 

And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the  Bible  in 
his  train : 

The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East,  and  se a 
shall  answer  sea, 

And  mountain  unto  mountain  call : Praise  Godt 
FOIt  WE  ARE  FREE  ! 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST  JOHN  471 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN. 

Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hills 
The  sun  shall  sink  again ! 

Farewell  to  life  and  all  its  ills, 

Farewell  to  cell  and  chain. 

These  prison  shades  are  dark  and  cold,  — 
But,  darker  far  than  they, 

The  shadow  of  a sorrow  old 
Is  on  my  heart  alway. 

For  since  the  day  when  Warkworth  wood 
Closed  o’er  my  steed  and  I, 

An  alien  from  my  name  and  blood, 

A weed  cast  out  to  die,  — 

When,  looking  back  in  sunset  light, 

I saw  her  turret  gleam, 

And  from  its  casement,  far  and  white. 

Her  sign  of  farewell  stream, 

Like  one  who  from  some  desert  shore 
Doth  home’s  green  isles  descry, 

And,  vainly  longing,  gazes  o’er 
The  waste  of  wave  and  sky ; 


47 2 THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN. 

So  from  the  desert  of  my  fate 
I gaze  across  the  past ; 

Forever  on  life’s  dial-plate 
The  shade  is  backward  cast ! 

I’ve  wandered  wide  from  shore  to  shore, 
I’ve  knelt  at  many  a shrine  ; 

And  bowed  me  to  the  rocky  floor 
Where  Bethlehem’s  tapers  shine ; 

And  by  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
I’ve  pledged  my  knightly  sword 

To  Christ,  his  blessed  Church,  and  her, 
The  Mother  of  our  Lord. 

Oh,  vain  the  vow,  and  vain  the  strife ! 
How  vain  do  all  things  seem ! 

My  soul  is  in  the  past,  and  life 
To-day  is  but  a dream ! 

In  vain  the  penance  strange  and  long, 
And  hard  for  flesh  to  bear ; 

The  prayer,  the  fasting,  and  the  throng, 
And  sackcloth  shirt  of  hair. 

The  eyes  of  memory  will  not  sleep,  — 
Its  ears  are  open  still ; 

And  vigils  with  the  past  they  keep 
Against  my  feeble  will. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN.  473 

And  still  the  loves  and  joys  of  old 
Do  evermore  uprise ; 

I see  the  flow  of  locks  of  gold, 

The  shine  of  loving  eyes  ! 

Ah  me  ! upon  another’s  breast 
Those  golden  locks  recline  ; 

I see  upon  another  rest 

The  glance  that  once  was  mine ! 

“ O faithless  Priest ! — O perjured  knight !” 
I hear  the  Master  cry ; 

“ Shut  out  the  vision  from  thy  sight, 

Let  Earth  and  Nature  die  ! 

“The  Church  of  God  is  now  thy  spouse, 
And  thou  the  bridegroom  art ; 

Then  let  the  burden  of  thy  vows 
Crush  down  thy  human  heart ! 11 

In  vain  ! This  heart  its  grief  must  know. 
Till  life  itself  hath  ceased, 

And  falls  beneath  the  selfsame  blow, 

The  lover  and  the  priest ! 

O pitying  mother  ! souls  of  light, 

And  saints,  and  martyrs  old  ! 

Pray  for  a weak  and  sinful  knight, 

A suffering  man  uphold. 


474 


THE  HOL  Y LAND . 


Then  let  the  Paynim  work  his  will, 
And  death  unbind  my  chain, 

Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hill 
The  sun  shall  fall  again. 


THE  HOLY  LAND. 

FROM  LAMARTINE. 

I have  not  felt  o’er  seas  of  sand, 

The  rocking  of  the  desert  bark ; 

Nor  laved  at  Hebron’s  fount  my  hand, 

By  Hebron’s  palm-trees  cool  and  dark| 
Nor  pitched  my  tent  at  even-fall, 

On  dust  where  Job  of  old  has  lain, 

Nor  dreamed  beneath  its  canvas  wall, 

The  dream  of  Jacob  o’er  again. 

One  vast  world-page  remains  unread  ; 

How  shine  the  stars  in  Chaldea’s  sky, 
How  sounds  the  reverent  pilgrim’s  tread, 
How  beats  the  heart  with  God  so  nigh ! 
How  round  gray  arch  and  column  lone 
The  spirit  of  the  old  time  broods, 

And  sighs  in  all  the  winds  that  moan 
Along  the  sandy  solitudes ! 


THE  HOLY  LAND * 


475 


In  thy  tall  cedars,  Lebanon, 

I have  not  heard  the  nations1  cries. 

Nor  seen  thy  eagles  stooping  down 
Where  buried  Tyre  in  ruin  lies. 

The  Christian’s  prayer  I have  not  said, 

In  Tadmor’s  temples  of  decay, 

Nor  startled  with  my  dreary  tread, 

The  waste  where  Memnon’s  empire  lay* 

Nor  have  I,  from  thy  hallowed  tide, 

O,  Jordan  ! heard  the  low  lament. 

Like  that  sad  wail  along  thy  side. 

Which  Israel’s  mournful  prophet  sent ! 

Nor  thrilled  within  that  grotto  lone, 

Where  deep  in  night,  the  Bard  of  Kings 
Felt  hands  of  fire  direct  his  own, 

And  sweep  for  God  the  conscious  strings* 

I have  not  climbed  to  Olivet, 

Nor  laid  me  where  my  Saviour  lay, 

And  left  his  trace  of  tears  as  yet 
By  angel  eyes  unwept  away ; 

Nor  watched  at  midnight’s  solemn  time, 

The  garden  where  His  prayer  and  groan®  1 
Wrung  by  His  sorrow  and  our  crime. 

Rose  to  One  listening  ear  alone. 

I have  not  kissed  the  rock-hewn  grot, 

Where  in  His  Mother’s  arms  He  lay* 


476  THE  holy  land. 

Nor  knelt  upon  the  sacred  spot 

Where  last  His  footsteps  pressed  the  clay ; 
Nor  looked  on  that  sad  mountain  head, 

Nor  smote  my  sinful  breast,  where  wide 
His  arms  to  fold  the  world  He  spread, 

And  bowed  His  head  to  bless  — and  died ! 


NOTES. 


1 Winnepurkit,  otherwise  called  George,  Sachem 
of  Saugus,  married  a daughter  of  Passaconaway,  the 
great  Pennacook  chieftain,  in  1662.  The  wedding 
took  place  at  Pennacook  (now  Concord,  N.H.), 
and  the  ceremonies  closed  with  a great  feast.  Ac- 
cording to  the  usages  of  the  chiefs,  Passaconaway 
ordered  a select  number  of  his  men  to  accompany  the 
newly-married  couple  to  the'  dwelling  of  the  husband, 
where  in  turn  there  was  another  great  feast.  Some 
time  after,  the  wife  of  Winnepurkit  expressing  a desire 
to  visit  her  father’s  house,  was  permitted  to  go  accom- 
panied by  a brave  escort  of  her  husband’s  chief  men. 
But  when  she  wished  to  return,  her  father  sent  a 
messenger  to  Saugus,  informing  her  husband,  and 
asking  him  to  come  and  take  her  away.  He  returned 
for  answer  that  he  had  escorted  his  wife  to  her 
father’s  house  in  a style  that  became  a chief,  and  that 
now  if  she  wished  to  return,  her  father  must  send  her 
back  in  the  same  way.  This  Passaconaway  refused 
to  do,  and  it  is  said  that  here  terminated  the  connec- 
tion of  his  daughter  with  the  Saugus  chief.  — Vide 
Morton's  New  Canaan. 


477 


47  8 


NOTES. 


2 This  was  the  name  which  the  Indians  of  New 
England  gave  to  two  or  three  of  their  principal  chiefs, 
to  whom  all  their  inferior  sagamores  acknowledged 
allegiance.  Passaconaway  seems  to  have  been  one 
of  these  chiefs.  His  residence  was  at  Pennacook. 
— Mass . Hist.  Coll .,  vol.  iii. , pp.  21,  22.  “He  was 
regarded,”  says  Hubbard,  “as  a great  sorcerer,  and 
his  fame  was  widely  spread.  It  was  said  of  him  that 
he  could  cause  a green  leaf  to  grow  in  winter,  trees 
to  dance,  water  to  burn,  etc.  He  was,  undoubtedly, 
one  of  those  shrewd  and  powerful  men  whose  achieve- 
ments are  always  regarded  by  a barbarous  people  as 
the  result  of  supernatural  aid.  The  Indians  gave  to 
such  the  names  of  Powahs  or  Panisees.” 

“The  Panisees  are  men  of  great  courage  and  wis- 
dom, and  to  these  the  Devill  appeareth  more  famil- 
iarly than  to  others.”  — Winslow's  Relation. 

3 “The  Indians,”  says  Roger  Williams,  “have  a 
god  whom  they  call  Wetuomanit,  who  presides  over 
the  household.” 

4 There  are  rocks  in  the  River  at  the  Falls  of 
Amoskeag,  in  the  cavities  of  which,  tradition  says,  the 
Indians  formerly  stored  and  concealed  their  corn. 

5 The  Spring  God. — See  Roger  Williams' s Key , etc. 

6 “ Mat  wonck  kunna-monee.”  We  shall  see  thee 
or  her  no  more. — Vide  Roger  Williams' s “ Key  to 
the  Indian  Language." 

7 “The  Great  South  West  God.”  — See  Roger 
Williams's  “ Observations ,”  etc. 


NOTES . 


479 


8 The  story  of  Mogg  Megone  has  been  considered 
by  the  author  only  as  a framework  for  sketches  of 
the  scenery  of  New  England,  and  of  its  early  inhabit- 
ants. In  portraying  the  Indian  character,  he  has 
followed,  as  closely  as  his  story  would  admit,  the 
rough  but  natural  delineations  of  Church,  Mayhew, 
Charlevoix,  and  Roger  Williams  ; and  in  so  doing  he 
has  necessarily  discarded  much  of  the  romance  which 
poets  and  novelists  have  thrown  around  the  ill-fated 
red  man.  — Ed. 

Mogg  Megone,  or  Hegone,  was  a leader  among 
the  Saco  Indians,  in  the  bloody  war  of  1677.  He 
attacked  and  captured  the  garrison  at  Black  Point, 
October  12th  of  that  year;  and  cut  off,  at  the  same 
time,  a party  of  Englishmen  near  Saco  River.  From 
a deed  signed  by  this  Indian  in  1664,  and  from  other 
circumstances,  it  seems  that,  previous  to  the  war, 
he  had  mingled  much  with  the  colonists.  On  this 
account,  he  was  probably  selected  by  the  principal 
sachems  as  their  agent,  in  the  treaty  signed  in  Nov- 
ember, 1676. 

9 Baron  de  St.  Castine  came  to  Canada  in  1644. 
Leaving  his  civilized  companions,  he  plunged  into 
the  great  wilderness,  and  settled  among  the  Penob- 
scot Indians,  near  the  mouth  of  their  noble  river. 
He  here  took  for  his  wives  the  daughters  of  the  great 
Modocawando  — the  most  powerful  sachem  of  the 
East.  His  castle  was  plundered  by  Governor  Andros, 
during  his  reckless  administration;  and  the  enraged 
Baron  is  supposed  to  have  excited  the  Indians  into 
open  hostility  to  the  English. 


480 


NOTES . 


10  The  owner  and  commander  of  the  garrison  ax 
Black  Point,  which  Mogg  attacked  and  plundered. 
He  was  an  old  man  at  the  period  to  which  the  tale 
relates. 

11  Major  Phillips,  one  of  the  principal  men  of  the 
Colony.  His  garrison  sustained  a long  and  terrible 
siege  by  the  savages.  As  a magistrate  and  a gentle- 
man, he  exacted  of  his  plebeian  neighbors  a remark- 
able degree  of  deference.  The  Court  Records  of  the 
settlement  inform  us  that  an  individual  was  fined  for 
the  heinous  offence  of  saying  that  “ Major  Phillips* 
mare  was  as  lean  as  an  Indian  dog.” 

12  Captain  Harmon,  of  Georgeana,  now  York,  was, 
for  many  years,  the  terror  of  the  Eastern  Indians. 
In  one  of  his  expeditions  up  the  Kennebec  River,  at 
the  head  of  a party  of  rangers,  he  discovered  twenty 
of  the  savages  asleep  by  a large  fire.  Cautiously 
creeping  towards  them,  until  he  was  certain  of  his 
aim,  he  ordered  his  men  to  single  out  their  objects. 
The  first  discharge  killed  or  mortally  wounded  the 
whole  number  of  the  unconscious  sleepers. 

13  Wood  Island,  near  the  mouth  of  the  Saco.  It 
was  visited  by  the  Sieur  De  Monts  and  Champlain, 
in  1603.  The  following  extract,  from  the  journal  of 
the  latter,  relates  to  it:  “ Having  left  the  Kennebec, 
we  ran  along  the  coast  to  the  westward,  and  cast 
anchor  under  a small  island,  near  the  mainland, 
where  we  saw  twenty  or  more  natives.  I here  visited 
an  island,  beautifully  clothed  with  a fine  growth  of 
forest  trees,  particularly  of  the  oak  and  walnut,  and 


NOTES . 


481 


overspread  with  vines,  that,  in  their  season,  produce 
excellent  grapes.  We  named  it  the  island  of  Bacchus. ” 
— Les  voyages  de  Sieur  Champlain.  Liv.  2,  c.  3. 

14  John  Bonython  was  the  son  of  Richard  Bony- 
thon,  Gent.,  one  of  the  most  efficient  and  able  ma- 
gistrates of  the  Colony.  John  proved  to  be  “a 
degenerate  plant,”  In  1635,  we  find,  by  the  Court 
Records,  that,  for  some  offence,  he  was  finded  405“. 
In  1640,  he  was  fined  for  abuse  towards  R.  Gibson, 
the  minister,  and  Mary,  his  wife.  Soon  after,  he 
was  fined  for  disorderly  conduct  in  the  house  of  his 
father.  In  1645,  the  “ Great  and  General  Court  ” 
adjudged  44  John  Bonython  outlawed,  and  incapable 
of  any  of  his  majesty’s  laws,  and  proclaimed  him 
a rebel.”  [Court  Records  of  the  Province,  1645.] 
In  1651,  he  bade  defiance  to  the  laws  of  Massachu- 
setts, and  was  again  outlawed.  He  acted  independ- 
ently of  all  law  and  authority;  and  hence,  doubt- 
less, his  burlesque  title  of  “The  Sagamore  of  Saco,” 
which  has  come  down  to  the  present  generation  in 
the  following  epitaph : — 

u Here  lies  Bonython,  the  Sagamore  of  Saco  ; 

He  lived  a rogue,  and  died  a knave/ and  went  to  Hobo- 
moko.” 

By  some  means  or  other,  he  obtained  a large  estate. 
In  this  poem,  I have  taken  some  liberties  with  him, 
not  strictly  warranted  by  historical  facts,  although 
the  conduct  imputed  to  him  is  in  keeping  with  his 
general  character.  Over  the  last  years  of  his  life 
lingers  a deep  obscurity.  Even  the  manner  of  his 


482 


• NOTES . 


death  is  uncertain.  He  was  supposed  to  have  been 
killed  by  the  Indians;  but  this  is  doubted  by  the 
able  and  indefatigable  author  of  the  history  of  Saco 
and  Biddeford.  — Part  I.,  p.  115. 

15  Foxwell’s  Brook  flows  from  a marsh  or  bog, 
called  the  “Heath,”  in  Saco,  containing  thirteen 
hundred  acres.  On  this  brook,  and  surrounded  by 
wild  and  romantic  scenery,  is  a beautiful  waterfall, 
of  more  than  sixty  feet. 

16  Hiacoomes,  the  first  Christian  preacher  on 
Martha’s  Vineyard,  for  a biography  of  whom  the 
reader  is  referred  to  Increase  Mayhew’s  account  of 
the  Praying  Indians,  1726.  The  following  is  related 
of  him:  “One  Lord’s  Dgy,  after  meeting,  where 
Hiacoomes  had  been  preaching,  there  came  in  a 
Powwaw  very  angry,  and  said,  4 1 know  all  the  meet- 
ing Indians  are  liars.  You  say  you  don’t  care  for 
the  Powwaws;’ — then,  calling  two  or  three  of  them 
by  name,  he  railed  at  them,  and  told  them  they  were 
deceived,  for  the  Powwaws  could  kill  all  the  meeting 
Indians,  if  they  set  about  it.  But  Hiacoomes  told 
him  that  he  would  be  in  the  midst  of  all  the  Pow- 
waws in  the  island,  and  they  should  do  the  utmost 
they  could  against  him;  and  when  they  should  do 
their  worst  by  their  witchcraft  to  kill  him,  he  would 
without  fear  set  himself  against  them,  by  remember- 
ing Jehovah.  He  told  them  also  he  did  put  all  the 
Powwaws  under  his  heel.  Such  was  the  faith  of  this 
good  man.  Nor  were  these  Powwaws  ever  able  to 
do  these  Christian  Indians  any  hurt,  though  others 


NOTES.  483 

were  frequently  hurt  and  killed  by  them.” — May- 
hew’s  Book , pp.  6,  7,  c.  1. 

17  “The  toothache,”  says  Roger  Williams,  in  his 
observations  upon  the  language  and  customs  of  the 
New  England  tribes,  “ is  the  only  paine  which  will 
force  their  stoute  hearts  to  cry.”  He  afterwards 
remarks  that  even  the  Indian  women  never  cry  as  he 
has  heard  “ some  of  their  men  in  this  paine.” 

18  Wuttamuttata , “Let  us  drink.”  Weekan , “It 
is  sweet.”  — Vide  Roger  Williams's  Key  to  the 
Indian  Language , “ in  that  parte  of  America  called 
New  England.”  London,  1643,  p.  35. 

19  Wetuomanit — -a  house  god,  or  demon.  “ They 
— the  Indians  — have  given  me  the  names  of  thirty- 
seven  gods,  which  I have,  all  which  in  their  solemne 
Worships  they  invocate ! ” R.  Williams’s  Briefe 
Observations  of  the  Customs,  Manners,  Worships, 
&c.,  of  the  Natives,  in  Peace  and  Warre,  in  Life  and 
Death : on  all  which  is  added  Spiritual  Observations, 
General  and  Particular,  of  Chiefe  and  Special  use  — 
upon  all  occasions  — to  all  the  English  inhabiting 
these  parts;  yet  Pleasant  and  Profitable  to  the  view 
of  all  Mene.  p.  no,  c.  21. 

20  Mount  Desert  Island,  the  Bald  Mountain  upon 
which  overlooks  Frenchman’s  and  Penobscot  Bay. 
It  was  upon  this  island  that  the  Jesuits  made  their 
earliest  settlement. 

21  Father  Hennepin,  a missionary  among  the  Iro- 
quois, mentions  that  the  Indians  believed  him  to  be 


484 


NOTES. 


a conjurer,  and  that  they  were  particularly  afraid  of 
a bright  silver  chalice  which  he  had  in  his  possession. 
“The  Indians,”  says  Pere  Jerome  Lallamant,  “fear 
us  as  the  greatest  sorcerers  on  earth.” 

22  Bomazeen  is  spoken  of  by  Penhallow,  as  “the 
famous  warrior  and  chieftain  of  Norridgewock.” 
He  was  killed  in  the  attack  of  the  English  upon 
Norridgewock,  in  1724. 

23  Pere  Ralle,  or  Rasies,  was  one  of  the  most 
zealous  and  indefatigable  of  that  band  of  Jesuit 
missionaries  who,  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  penetrated  the  forests  of  America,  with  the 
avowed  object  of  converting  the  heathen.  The  first 
religious  mission  of  the  Jesuits,  to  the  savages  in 
North  America,  was  in  1611.  The  zeal  of  the  fathers 
for  the  conversion  of  the  Indians  to  the  Catholic 
faith  knew  no  bounds.  For  this,  they  plunged  into 
the  depths  of  the  wilderness;  habituated  themselves 
to  all  the  hardships  and  privations  of  the  natives; 
suffered  cold,  hunger,  and  some  of  them  death  itself, 
by  the  extremest  tortures.  Pere  Brebeuf,  after  labor- 
ing in  the  cause  of  his  mission  for  twenty  years, 
together  with  his  companion,  Pere  Lallamant,  was 
burned  alive.  To  these  might  be  added  the  nhmes 
of  those  Jesuits  who  were  put  to  death  by  the  Iroquois 
— Daniel,  Gamier,  Buteaux,  La  Riborerde,  Goupil, 
Constantin,  and  Liegeouis.  “ For  bed,”  says  Father 
Lallamant,  in  his  Relation  de  ce  qui  s’est  dans  le  pays 
des  Hurons , 1640,  c.  3,  “we  have  nothing  but  a 
miserable  piece  of  bark  of  a tree;  for  nourishment, 


NOTES. 


485 


a handful  or  two  of  corn,  either  roasted  or  soaked  in 
water,  which  seldom  satisfies  our  hunger;  and  after 
all,  not  venturing  to  perform  even  the  ceremonies  of 
our  religion,  without  being  considered  as  sorcerers.” 
Their  success  among  the  natives,  however,  by  no 
means  equalled  their  exertions.  Pere  Lallamant  says 
— “ With  respect  to  adult  persons,  in  good  health, 
there  is  little  apparent  success;  on  the  contrary,  there 
have  been  nothing  but  storms  and  whirlwinds  from 
that  quarter.” 

Sdbastien  Ralle  established  himself,  sometime  about 
the  year  1670,  at  Norridgewock,  where  he  continued 
more  than  forty  years.  He  was  accused,  and  per- 
haps not  without  justice,  of  exciting  his  praying 
Indians  against  the  English,  whom  he  looked  upon  as 
the  enemies  not  only  of  his  king,  but  also  of  the 
Catholic  religion.  He  was  killed  by  the  English,  in 
1724,  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  which  his  own  hands 
had  planted.  This  Indian  church  was  broken  up, 
and  its  members  either  killed  outright  or  dispersed. 

In  a letter  written  by  Ralle  to  his  nephew,  he  gives 
the  following  account  of  his  church,  and  his  own 
labors:  “All  my  converts  repair  to  the  church 
regularly  twice  every  day;  first,  very  early  in  the 
morning,  to  attend  mass,  and  again  in  the  evening, 
to  assist  in  the  prayers  at  sunset.  As  it  is  necessary 
to  fix  the  imagination  of  savages,  whose  attention  is 
easily  distracted,  I have  composed  prayers,  calculated 
to  inspire  them  with  just  sentiments  of  the  august 
sacrifice  of  our  altars : they  chant,  or  at  least  recite 


486 


NOTES. 


them  aloud,  during  mass.  Besides  preaching  to 
them  on  Sundays  and  saints’  days,  I seldom  let  a 
working  day  pass  without  making  a concise  exhorta- 
tion, for  the  purpose  of  inspiring  them  with  horror 
at  those  vices  to  which  they  are  most  addicted,  or  to 
confirm  them  in  the  practice  of  some  particular 
virtue.”  Vide  Lettres  Edifiantes  et  Cur.,  vol.  6, 
p.  127. 

24  The  character  of  Ralle  has  probably  never  been 
correctly  delineated.  By  his  brethren  of  the  Romish 
Church  he  has  been  nearly  apotheosized.  On  the 
other  hand,  our  Puritan  historians  have  represented 
him  as  a demon  in  human  form.  He  was  undoubt- 
edly sincere  in  his  devotion  to  the  interests  of  his 
church,  and  not  over-scrupulous  as  to  the  means  of 
advancing  those  interests.  “ The  French,”  says  the 
author  of  the  History  of  Saco  and  Biddeford,  “ after 
the  peace  of  1713,  secretly  promised  to  supply  the 
Indians  with  arms  and  ammunition,  if  they  would 
renew  hostilities.  Their  principal  agent  was  the 
celebrated  Ralle,  the  French  Jesuit.”  p.  215. 

25  Hertel  de  Rouville  was  an  active  and  unsparing 
enemy  of  the  English.  Pie  was  the  leader  of  the 
combined  French  and  Indian  forces  which  destroyed 
Deerfield,  and  massacred  its  inhabitants,  in  1703.  He 
was  afterwards  killed  in  the  attack  upon  Haverhill. 
Tradition  says  that  on  examining  his  dead  body  his 
head  and  face  were  found  to  be  perfectly  smooth, 
without  the  slightest  appearance  of  hair  or  beard. 


NOTES.  487 

26  Cowesass  ? — tawhich  wessaseen  ? Are  you  afraid  ? 
— why  fear  you  ? 

27  “ The  Indians  speak  of  a beautiful  river,  far  to 
the  south,  which  they  call  Merrimack.”  — Sieur  de 
Monts : 1604. 

28  The  celebrated  Captain  Smith,  after  resigning 
the  government  of  the  colony  in  Virginia,  in  his 
capacity  of  “Admiral  of  New  England,”  made  a 
careful  survey  of  the  coast  from  Penobscot  to  Cape 
Cod,  in  the  summer  of  1614. 

29  Lake  Winnipiseogee  — The  Smile  of  the  Great 
Spirit  — the  source  of  one  of  the  branches  of  the 
Merrimack. 

30  Captain  Smith  gave  to  the  promontory,  now 
called  Cape  Ann,  the  name  of  Tragabizanda,  in 
memory  of  his  young  and  beautiful  mistress  of  that 
name,  who,  while  he  was  a captive  at  Constantinople, 
like  Desdemona,  “ loved  him  for  the  dangers  he  had 
passed.” 

31  Some  three  or  four  years  since,  a fragment  of  a 
statue,  rudely  chiselled  from  dark  gray  stone,  was 
found  in  the  town  of  Bradford  on  the  Merrimack. 
Its  origin  must  be  left  entirely  to  conjecture.  The 
fact  that  the  ancient  Northmen  visited  New  England 
some  centuries  before  the  discoveries  of*  Columbus  is 
now  very  generally  admitted. 

32  In  the  following  ballad  the  author  has  endeav- 
ored to  display  the  strong  enthusiasm  of  the  early 
Quaker,  the  short-sighted  intolerance  of  the  clergy 


488 


NOTES . 


and  magistrates,  and  that  sympathy  with  the  op- 
pressed which  the  “common  people,”  when  not 
directly  under  the  control  of  spiritual  despotism,  have 
ever  evinced.  He  is  not  blind  to  the  extravagance 
of  language  and  action  which  characterized  some  of 
the  pioneers  of  Quakerism  in  New  England,  and 
which  furnished  persecution  with  its  solitary  but 
most  inadequate  excuse. 

The  ballad  has  its  foundation  upon  a somewhat 
remarkable  event  in  the  history  of  Puritan  intol- 
erance. Two  young  persons,  son  and  daughter  of 
Lawrence  Southwick  of  Salem,  who  had  himself 
been  imprisoned  and  deprived  of  all  his  property  for 
having  entertained  two  Quakers  at  his  house,  were 
fined  ten  pounds  each  for  non-attendance  at  church, 
which  they  were  unable  to  pay.  The  case  being 
represented  to  the  General  Court,  at  Boston,  that 
body  issued  an  order,  which  may  still  be  seen  on  the 
court  records,  bearing  the  signature  of  Edward  Raw- 
son,  Secretary,  by  which  the  treasurer  of  the  County 
was  “ fully  empowered  to  sell  the  said  persons  to  any 
of  the  English  nation  at  Virginia  or  Barbadoes , to 
answer  said  fines.”  An  attempt  was  made  to  carry 
this  barbarous  order  into  execution,  but  no  shipmaster 
was  found  willing  to  convey  them  to  the  West 
Indies.  — Vijle  Sezvall’s  History , pp.  225-6,  G. 
Bishop, 

33  Polan,  a chief  of  the  Sokokis  Indians,  the 
original  inhabitants  of  the  country  lying  between 
Agamenticus  and  Casco  Bay,  was  killed  in  a skirmish 


NOTES. 


489 


at  Windham,  on  the  Sebago  Lake,  in  the  spring  of 
1756.  He  claimed  all  the  lands  on  both  sjdes  of  the 
Presnmpscot  River  to  its  mouth  at  Casco,  as  his  own. 
He  was  shrewd,  subtle,  and  brave.  After  the  white 
men  had  retired,  the  surviving  Indians  “swayed”  or 
bent  down  a young  tree  until  its  roots  were  turned 
up,  placed  the  body  of  their  chief  beneath  them,  and 
then  released  the  tree  to  spring  back  to  its  former 
position. 

84  The  Sokokis  were  early  converts  to  the  Catholic 
faith.  Most  of  them,  prior  to  the  year  1756,  had 
removed  to  the  French  settlements  on  the  St. 
Francis. 

35  The  brutal  and  unchristian  spirit  of  the  early 
settlers  of  New  England  toward  the  red  man,  is 
strikingly  illustrated  in  the  conduct  of  the  man  who 
shot  down  the  Sokokis  chief.  He  used  to  say  he 
always  noticed  the  anniversary  of  that  exploit  as 
“ the  day  on  which  he  sent  the  Devil  a present.”  — 
Williamson' s History  of  Maine . 

86  The  fierce  rivalship  of  the  two  French  officers 
left  by  the  death  of  Razilla  in  the  possession  of 
Acadia,  or  Nova  Scotia,  forms  one  of  the  most 
romantic  passages  in  the  history  of  the  New  World. 
Charles  St.  Estienne,  inheriting  from  his  father  the 
title  of  Lord  De  la  Tour,  whose  seat  was  at  the 
mouth  of  the  St.  John’s  River,  was  a Protestant;  De 
Aulney  Charnisy,  whose  fortress  was  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Penobscot,  or  ancient  Pentagoet , was  a Catholic* 


49° 


NOTES . 


The  incentives  of  a false  religious  feeling,  septarian 
intolerance,  and  personal  interest  and  ambition,  con- 
spired to  render  their  feud  bloody  and  unsparing. 
The  Catholic  was  urged  on  by  the  Jesuits,  who  had 
found  protection  from  Puritan  gallows-ropes  under 
his  jurisdiction;  the  Huguenot  still  smarted  under 
the  recollection  of  his  wrongs  and  persecutions  in 
France.  Both  claimed  to  be  champions  of  that 
cr.oss  from  which  went  upward  the  holy  petition  of 
the  Prince  of  Peace:  “ Father , forgive  them .”  La 
Tour  received  aid  in  several  instances  from  the  Puri- 
tan colonies  of  Massachusetts.  During  pne  of  his 
voyages  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  arms  and  pro- 
visions for  his  establishment  at  St.  John,  his  castle 
was  attacked  by  De  Aulney,  and  successfully  de- 
fended by  its  high-spirited  mistress.  A second 
attack,  however,  followed  in  the  4th  mo.,  1647. 
Lady  La  Tour  defended  her  castle  with  a desperate 
perseverance.  After  a furious  cannonade,  De  Aulney 
stormed  the  walls,  and  put  the  entire  garrison  to  the 
sword.  Lady  La  Tour  languished  a few  days  only 
in  the  hands  of  her  inveterate  enemy,  and  died  of 
grief,  greatly  regretted  by  the  colonists  of  Boston,  to 
whom,  as  a devoted  Protestant,  she  was  well  known. 

37  The  settlement  of  the  Jesuits  on  the  island  of 
Mount  Desert  was  called  St.  Saviour. 

38  The  isle  of  Monhegan  was  one  of  the  first 
settled  on  the  coast  of  Maine. 

39  The  village  of  Haverhill,  on  the  Merrimack, 
called  by  the  Indians  Pentucket,  was  for  nearly 


NOTES. 


49 1 


seventeen  years  a frontier  town,  and  during  thirty 
years  endured  all  the  horrors  of  savage  warfare.  In 
the  year  1708  a combined  body  of  French  and 
Indians,  under  the  command  of  De  Challions,  and 
Hertel  de  Rouville,  the  infamous  and  bloody  sacker 
of  Deerfield,  made  an  attack  upon  the  village, 
which  at  that  time  contained  only  thirty  houses. 
Sixteen  of  the  villagers  were  massacred,  and  a still 
larger  number  made  prisoners.  About  thirty  of  the 
enemy  also  fell,  and  among  them  Hertel  de  Rou- 
ville. The  minister  of  the  place,  Benjamin  Rolfe, 
was  killed  by  a shot  through  his  own  door. 

40  The  “Pilgrims”  of  New  England,  even  in 
their  wilderness  home,  were  not  exempted  from  the 
sectarian  contentions  which  agitated  the  mother 
country  after  the  downfall  of  Charles  the  First,  and 
of  the  established  Episcopacy.  The  Quakers,  Bap- 
tists, and  Catholics  were  banished,  on  pain  of  death, 
from  the  Massachusetts  Colony.  One  Samuel 
Gorton,  a bold  and  eloquent  declaimer,  after  preach- 
ing for  a time  in  Boston  against  the  doctrines  of  the 
Puritans,  and  declaring  that  their  churches  were 
mere  human  devices,  and  their  sacrament  and  bap- 
tism an  abomination,  was  driven  out  of  the  State’s 
jurisdiction,  and  compelled  to  seek  a residence 
among  the  savages.  He  gathered  round  him  a con- 
siderable number  of  converts,  who,  like  the  primi- 
tive Christians,  shared  all  things  in  common.  His 
opinions,  however,  were  so  troublesome  to  the  lead- 
ing clergy  of  the  colony,  that  they  instigated  an 


49  2 


NOTES. 


attack  upon  his  “ Family  ” by  an  armed  force,  which 
seized  upon  the  principal  men  in  it,  and  brought 
them  into  Massachusetts,  where  they  were  sentenced 
to  be  kept  at  hard  labor  in  several  towns  (one  only 
in  each  town),  during  the  pleasure  of  the  General 
Court,  they  being  forbidden,  under  severe  penalties, 
to  utter  any  of  their  religious  sentiments,  except  to 
such  ministers  as  might  labor  for  their  conversion. 
They  were  unquestionably  sincere  in  their  opinions, 
and,  whatever  may  have  been  their  errors,  deserve 
to  be  ranked  among  those  who  have  in  all  ages 
suffered  for  the  freedom  of  conscience. 

41  On  the  declivity  of  a hill  in  Salisbury,  Essex 
County,  is  a beautiful  fountain  of  clear  water,  gush- 
ing out  from  the  very  roots  of  a majestic  and  vener- 
able oak.  It  is  about  two  miles  from  the  junction  of 
the  Powow  River  with  the  Merrimack. 

42  De  Soto,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  penetrated 
into  the  wilds  of  the  New  World  in  search  of  gold 
and  the  fountain  of  perpetual  youth.  . 

43  The  incidents  upon  which  the  following  ballad 
has  its  foundation  occurred  about  the  year  1660. 
Thomas  Macey  was  one  of  the  first,  if  not  the  first, 
white  settler  of  Nantucket.  A quaint  description  of 
his  singular  and  perilous  voyage,  in  his  own  hand- 
writing, is  still  preserved. 

44  The  following  ballad  is  founded  upon  one  of 
the  marvellous  legends  connected  with  the  famous 
Gen.  M.  of  Hampton,  N.H.,  who  was  regarded  by 


NOTES. 


493 


his  neighbors  as  a Yankee  Faust,  in  league  with  the 
adversary.  I give  the  story,  as  I heard  it  when  a 
child,  from  a venerable  family  visitant. 

45  Toussaint  L’Ouverture,  the  black  chieftain  of 
Hayti,  was  a slave  on  the  plantation  “ de  Liber- 
tas,”  belonging  to  M.  Bayou.  When  the  rising  of 
the  negroes  took  place  in  1791,  Toussaint  refused 
to  join  them  until  he  had  aided  M.  Bayou  and  his 
family  to  escape  to  Baltimore.  The  white  man  had 
discovered  in  Toussaint  many  noble  qualities,  and 
had  instructed  him  in  some  of  the  first  branches  of 
education;  and  the  preservation  of  his  life  was  owing 
to  the  negro’s  gratitude  for  this  kindness. 

In  1797  Toussaint  L’Ouverture  was  appointed, 
by  the  French  Government,  General-in-Chief  of  the 
armies  of  St.  Domingo,  and  as  such  signed  the  Con- 
vention with  General  Maitland  for  the  evacuation 
of  the  island  by  the  British.  From  this  period  until 
1801  the  island,  under  the  government  of  Toussaint, 
was  happy,  tranquil,  and  prosperous.  The  miserable 
attempt  of  Napoleon  to  re-establish  slavery  in  St. 
Domingo,  although  it  failed  of  its  intended  object, 
proved  fatal  to  the  negro  chieftain.  Treacherously 
seized  by  Le  Clerc,  he  was  hurried  on  board  a ves- 
sel by  night,  and  conveyed  to  France,  where  he  was 
confined  in  a cold  subterranean  dungeon  at  Besan^n, 
where  in  April,  1803,  he  died.  The  treatment  of 
Toussaint  finds  a parallel  only  in  the  murder  of  the 
Duke  D’Enghein.  It  was  the  remark  of  Godwin, 
in  his  Lectures,  that  the  West  India  Islands,  since 


494 


NOTES. 


their  first  discovery  by  Columbus,  could  not  boast  of 
a single  name  which  deserves  comparison  with  that 
of  Toussaint  L’Ouverture. 

46  The  reader  may,  perhaps,  call  to  mind  the  beau- 
tiful sonnet  of  William  Wordsworth,  addressed  to 
Toussaint  L’Ouverture  during  his  confinement  in 
France. 

“ Toussaint ! — thou  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 

Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tends  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thou  liest  now 
Buried  in  some  deep  dungeon’s  earless  den  $ 

Oh,  miserable  chieftain  ! — where  and  when 

Wilt  thou  find  patience  ? — Yet,  die  not ; do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a cheerful  brow  : 

Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 

Live  and  take  comfort.  Thou  hast  left  behind 

Powers  that  will  work  for  thee ; air,  earth,  and  skies,  — 
There’s  not  a breathing  of  the  common  wind 

That  will  forget  thee : thou  hast  great  allies. 

Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 

And  love,  and  man’s  unconquerable  mind.” 

47  The  French  ship  Le  Rodeur,  with  a crew  of 
twenty-two  men,  and  with  one  hundred  and  sixty 
negro  slaves,  sailed  from  Bonny,  in  Africa,  April, 
1819.  On  approaching  the  line  a terrible  malady 
broke  out  — an  obstinate  disease  of  the  eyes  — con- 
tagious, and  altogether  beyond  the  resources  of  medi- 
cine. It  was  aggravated  by  the  scarcity  of  water 
among  the  slaves  (only  half  a wine-glass  per  day 
being  allowed  to  an  individual),  and  by  the  extreme 
impurity  of  the  air  in  which  they  breathed.  By  the 


NOTES. 


495 


advice  of  the  physician  they  were  brought  upon  deck 
occasionally;  but  some  of  the  poor  wretches,  locking 
themselves  in  each  other’s  arms,  leaped  overboard, 
in  the  hope,  which  so  universally  prevails  among 
them,  of  being  swiftly  transported  to  their  own 
homes  in  Africa.  To  check  this,  the  captain  ordered 
several,  who  were  stopped  in  the  attempt,  to  be  shot, 
or  hanged,  before  their  companions.  The  disease 
extended  to  the  crew;  and  one  after  another  were 
smitten  with  it,  until  only  one  remained  unaffected. 
Yet  even  this  dreadful  condition  did  not  preclude 
calculation : to  save  the  expense  of  supporting  slaves 
rendered  unsalable,  and  to  obtain  grounds  for  a claim 
against  the  underwriters,  thirty-six  of  the  negroes , 
having  become  blind , were  thrown  into  the  sea  and 
drowned. 

In  the  midst  of  their  dreadful  fears  lest  the  solitary 
individual  whose  sight  remained  unaffected  should 
also  be  seized  with  the  malady,  a sail  was  discovered. 
It  was  the  Spanish  slaver  Leon.  The  same  disease 
had  been  there,  and,  horrible  to  tell,  all  the  crew  had 
become  blind.  Unable  to  assist  each  other,  the  ves- 
sels parted.  The  Spanish  ship  has  never  since  been 
heard  of.  The  Rodeur  reached  Guadaloupe  on  the 
2 1st  of  June;  the  only  man  who  had  escaped  the 
disease,  and  had  thus  been  enabled  to  steer  the  slaver 
into  port,  caught  it  in  three  days  after  its  arrival.  — 
Speech  of  M.  Benjamin  Constant , in  the  French 
Chamber  of  Deputies,  June  17,  1820.  * 

48  “The  despotism  which  our  fathers  could  not 


496 


NOTES. 


bear  in  their  native  country  is  expiring,  and  the 
sword  of  justice  in  her  reformed  hands  has  applied  its 
exterminating  edge  to  slavery.  Shall  the  United 
States — the  free  United  States,  which  could  not  bear 
the  bonds  of  a king,  cradle  the  bondage  which  a 
king  is  abolishing?  Shall  a Republic  be  less  free 
than  a Monarchy?  Shall  we,  in  the  vigor  and  buoy- 
ancy of  our  manhood,  be  less  energetic  in  righteous- 
ness than  a kingdom  in  its  age?”  — Dr.  Foiled s 
Address . 

44  Genius  of  America!  — Spirit  of  our  free  institu- 
tions— where  art  thou?  — How  art  thou  fallen,  O 
Lucifer ! son  of  the  morning  — how  art  thou  fallen 
from  Heaven ! Hell  from  beneath  is  moved  for 
thee,  to  meet  thee  at  thy  coming ! — The  kings  of 
the  earth  cry  out  to  thee,  Aha ! Aha ! — art  thou 
become  like  unto  us?  ” — Speech  of  Samuel  J.  May . 

49  44  Living,  I shall  assert  the  right  of  Free  Dis- 
cussion ; dying,  I shall  assert  it;  and,  should  I 
leave  no  other  inheritance  to  my  children,  by  the 
blessing  of  God  I will  leave  them  the  inheritance  of 
Free  Principles,  and  the  example  of  a manly  and 
independent  defence  of  them.”  — Daniel  Webster. 

6)  Written  on  reading  the  report  of  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  American  Colonization  Society,  at  its 
annual  meeting  in  1834. 

51  In  the  Report  of  the  celebrated  pro-slavery 
meeting  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  on  the  4th  of  the  9th 
month,  1835,  published  in  the  Courier  of  that  city,  it 
is  stated,  44  The  clergy  of  all  denominations  attended 


NOTES. 


497 


in  a &ody,  lending  their  sanction  to  the  proceedings, 
and  adding  by  their  presence  to  the  impressive 
character  of  the  scene!” 

52  In  a late  publication  of  L.  F.  Tasistro,  “ Ran- 
dom Shots  and  Southern  Breezes,”  is  a description 
of  a slave  auction  at  New  Orleans,  at  which  the  auc- 
tioneer recommended  the  woman  on  the  stand  as  “ a 
good  Christian ! ” 

53  There  is  in  Liberty  County,  Georgia,  an  Associa- 

tion for  the  religious  instruction  of  Negroes.  Their 
seventh  annual  report  contains  an  address  by  the 
Rev.  Josiah  Spry  Law,  from  which  we  extract  the 
following:  “There  is  a growing  interest,  in  this 

community,  in  the  religious  instruction  of  Negroes. 
There  is  a conviction  that  religious  instruction  pro- 
motes the  quiet  and  order  of  the  people,  and  the 
pecuniary  interest  of  the  owners.” 

54  We  often  see  advertisements  in  the  Southern 
papers,  in  which  individual  slaves,  or  several  of  a lot, 
are  recommended  as  “pious ,”  or  as  “ members  of 
churches .”  Lately  we  saw  a slave  advertised,  who, 
among  other  qualifications,  was  described  as  “a 
Baptist  preacher.” 

55  The  “Times 99  alluded  to  were  those  evil  times  of 
the  pro-slavery  meeting  in  Faneuil  Hall,  for  the  sup- 
pression of  freedom  of  speech,  lest  it  should  endanger 
the  foundations  of  commercial  society.  In  view  of 
the  outrages  which  a careful  observation  of  the  times 
had  enabled  him  to  foresee  must  spring  from  the  false 


498 


NOTES. 


witness  born  against  the  abolitionists  by  the  speakers 
at  that  meeting,  well  might  Garrison  say  of  them, 
“ I consider  the  man  who  fires  a city  guiltless  in 
comparison.”  • 

56  Written  on  reading  the  spirited  and  manly  re- 
marks of  Governor  Ritner,  of  Pennsylvania,  in  his 
Message  of  1836,  on  the  subject  of  Slavery. 

57  It  is  a remarkable  fact,  that  the  first  testimony 
of  a religious  body  against  negro  slavery  was  that  of 
a Society  of  German  “ Friends  ” in  Pennsylvania. 

58  Written  on  reading  the  famous  “ Pastoral  Let- 
ter ” of  the  Massachusetts  General  Association,  1837. 

69  Written  for  the  meeting  of  the  Anti-Slavery 
Society,  at  Chatham  Street  Chapel,  New  York,  held 
on  the  4th  of  the  7th  month,  1834. 

60  Written  for  the  celebration  of  the  Third  Anni- 
versary of  British  Emancipation,  at  the  Broadway 
Tabernacle,  New  York,  “First  of  August,”  1837. 

61  Written  for  the  Anniversary,  celebration  of  the 
First  of  August,  at  Milton,  1846. 

62  Written  for  the  opening  of  “ Pennsylvania 
Hall,”  dedicated  to  Free  Discussion,  Virtue,  Liberty, 
and  Independence,  on  the  15th  of  the  5th  month, 

1838. 

63  “To  agitate  the  question  [Slavery]  anew,  is  not 
only  impolitic,  but  it  is  a virtual  breach  of  good  faith 
to  our  brethren  of  the  South;  an  unwarrantable  inter- 
ference with  their  domestic  relations  and  institu- 


NOTES. 


499 


tions.”  “ I can  never,  in  the  official  station  which  I 
occupy,  consent  to , countenance  a course  which  may 
jeopard  the  peace  and  harmony  of  the  Union.”  — 

Governor  Porter' s Inaugural  Message , 1838. 

64  It  ought  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  David  R4 
Porter  voted  in  the  Legislature  to  instruct  the  con. 
gressional  delegation  of  Pennsylvania  to  use  their 
influence  for  the  abolition  of  slavery  in  the  District 
of  Columbia. 

65  “ He  [Martin  Van  Buren]  thinks  the  abolitionists 
may  be  put  down.”  — Richmond  ( Va.)  Enquirer . 

66  The  Northern  author  of  the  Congressional  rule 
against  receiving  petitions  of  the  people  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Slavery. 

67  Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  citizens  of  Norfolk,  Va.,  in  reference  to 
George  Latimer,  the  alleged  fugitive  slave,  the  result 
of  whose  case  in  Massachusetts  will  probably  be  simi- 
lar to  that  of  the  negro  Somerset  in  England,  in  1772. 

68  Pennsylvania  Hall,  dedicated  to  Free  Discussion 
and  the  cause  of  human  liberty,  was  destroyed  by  a 
mob  in  1838.  The  following  was  written  on  receiv- 
ing a cane  wrought  from  a fragment  of  the  wood- 
work which  the  fire  had  spared. 

69  Written  on  reading  the  sentence  of  John  L. 
Brown,  of  South  Carolina,  to  be  executed  on  the 
25th  of  4th  month,  1844,  for  the  crime  of  assisting  a 
female  slave  to  escape  from  bondage.  The  sentence 
was  afterwards  commuted. 


s°° 


NOTES. 


70  Three  new  publications,  from  the  pens  of  Dr. 
Junkin,  President  of  Miami  College,  Alexander 
McCaine  of  the  Methodist  Protestant  church,  and  of 
a clergyman  of  the  Cincinnati  Synod,  defending 
slavery  on  Scriptural  ground,  have  recently  made 
their  appearance. 

71  Captain  Jonathan  Walker,  of  Harwich,  Mass., 
was  solicited  by  several  fugitive  slaves  at  Pensacola, 
Fla.,  to  convey  them  in  his  vessel  to  the  British 
West  Indies.  Although  well  aware  of  the  hazard  of 
the  enterprise,  he  attempted  to  comply  with  their 
request.  He  .was  seized  by  an  American  vessel,  con- 
signed to  the  American  authorities  at  Key  West,  and 
by  them  taken  back  to  Florida  — where,  after  a long 
and  rigorous  imprisonment,  he  was  brought  to  trial. 
He  was  sentenced  to  be  branded  on  the  right  hand 
with  the  letters  “ S.  S.”  (“Slave  Stealer”)  and 
amerced  in  a heavy  fine.  He  was  released  on  the 
payment  of  his  fine  in  the  6th  month  of  1845. 

72  Written  in  1844,  on  reading  a call  by  “a 
Massachusetts  Freeman”  for  a meeting  in  Faneuil 
Hall  of  the  citizens  of  Massachusetts,  without  dis- 
tinction of  party,  opposed  to  the  annexation  of 
Texas,  and  the  aggressions  of  South  Carolina,  and  in 
favor  of  decisive  action  against  slavery. 

73  Written  on  hearing  that  the  Anti-Slavery  Re- 
solves of  Stephen  C.  Phillips  had  been  rejected  by 
the  Whig  Convention  in  Faneuil  Hall,  in  1846. 

74  “Dr.  Thacher,  surgeon  in  Scammel’s  regiment, 


NOTES. 


Wlrlltfffl'  r,f 

50T 

in  his  description  of  the  siege  of  Yorktown,  says: 

“ The  labor  on  the  Virginia  plantations  is  performed 
altogether  by  a species  of  the  human  race  cruelly 
wrested  from  their  native  country,  and  doomed  to 
perpetual  bondage,  while  their  masters  are  manfully 
contending  for  freedom  and  the  natural  rights  of  man. 

Such  is  the  inconsistency  of  human  nature.”  Eigh- 
teen hundred  slaves  were  found  at  Yorktown,  after 
its  surrender,  and  restored  to  their  masters.  Well 
was  it  said  by  Dr.  Barnes,  in  his  late  work  on 
Slavery : “ No  slave  was  any  nearer  his  freedom  after 
the  surrender  of  Yorktown,  than  when  Patrick  Henry 
first  taught  the  notes  of  liberty  to  echo  among  the 
hills  and  vales  of  Virginia.” 

75  Mary  G , aged  18,  a “Sister  of  Charity,” 

died  in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities,  during  the  preva- 
lence of  the  Indian  cholera,  while  in  voluntary 
attendance  upon  the  sick. 

, 76  “The  manner  in  which  the  Waldenses  and 
heretics  disseminated  their  principles  among  the 
Catholic  gentry  was  by  carrying  with  them  a box 
of  trinkets,  or  articles  of  dress.  Having  entered  the 
houses  of  the  gentry,  and  disposed  of  some  of  their 
goods,  they  cautiously  intimated  that  they  had  com- 
modities far  more  valuable  than  these  — inestimable 
jewels,  which  they  would  show  if  they  could  be  pro- 
tected from  the  clergy.  They  would  then  give  their 
purchasers  a Bible  or  Testament;  and  thereby  many 
were  deluded  into  heresy.”  — R.  Sa-ccho. 

77  It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say  that  the 


NOTES. 


tlP 


S' 02 

author  refers  to  those  who  are  seeking  the  reform  of 
political  evils  in  great  Britain,  by  peaceful  and  Chris- 
tian means. 

78  Some  of  the  leading  sectarian  papers  have  lately 
published  the  letter  of  a clergyman,  giving  an  account 
of  his  attendance  upon  a criminal  (who  had  com- 
mitted murder  during  a fit  of  intoxication),  at 
the  time  of  his  execution,  in  Western  New  Work. 
The  writer  describes  the'  agony  of  the  wretched 
being  — his  abortive  attempts  at  prayer  — his  appeal 
for  life — his  fear  of  a violent  death;  and,  after  de- 
claring his  belief  that  the  poor  victim  died  without 
hope  of  salvation,  concludes  with  a warm  eulogy 
upon  the  gallows,  being  more  than  ever  convinced  of 
its  utility  by  the  awful  dread  and  horror  which  it 
inspired. 

79  Among  the  Tartars,  the  Caspian  is  known  as 
Akdingis , that  is,  White  Sea.  Baku,  on  its  Persian 
side,  is  remarkable  for  its  perpetual  fire,  scarcely  dis- 
coverable under  the  pitchy  clouds  of  smoke  from  the 
bitumen  which  feeds  it.  It  is  the  natural  fire-altar 
of  the  old  Persian  worship. 

80  Randolph  had  a hearty  hatred  of  slave  traders, 
and  it  is  said  treated  some  of  them  quite  roughly, 
who  ventured  to  cheapen  his  “ chattels  personal.” 

81  See  the  remarkable  statement  of  Dr.  Parish,  his 
medical  attendant. 

82  Chalkley  Hall,  nea'r  Frankford,  Pu.,  the  resi- 
dence of  Thomas  Chalkley,  an  eminent  minister 


NOTES . 


S°3 

of  the  “ Friends”  denomination.  He  was  one  of 
the  early  settlers  of  the  Colony,  and  his  Journal, 
which  was  published  in  1749,  presents  a quaint  but 
beautiful  picture  of  a life  of  unostentatious  and 
simple  goodness.  He  was  the  master  of  a merchant 
vessel,  and,  in  his  visits  to  the  West  Indies  and  Great 
Britain,  omitted  no  opportunity  to  labor  for  the 
highest  interests  of  his  fellow-men.  During  a tern* 
porary  residence  in  Philadelphia,  in  the  summer  of 
1838,  the  quiet  and  beautiful  scenery  around  the 
ancient  village  of  Frankford  frequently  attracted  md 
from  the  heat  and  bustle  of  the  city. 

83  Ibn  Batuta,  the  celebrated  Mussulman  travel- 
ler of  the  fourteenth  century,  speaks  of  a cypress 
tree  in  Ceylon,  universally  held  sacred  by  the  natives, 
the  leaves  of  which  were  said  to  fall  only  at  certain 
intervals,  and  he  who  had  the  happiness  to  find  and 
eat  one  of  them  was  restored,  at  once,  to  youth  and 
vigor.  The  traveller  saw  several  venerable  Jogees, 
or  saints,  sitting  silent  and  motionless  under  the  tree, 
patiently  awaiting  the  falling  of  a leaf. 

84  “ Get  the  writings  of  John  Woolman  by  heart.’’ 
— Essays  of  Elia . 

85  August.  Sililoq.  cap.  xxxi.  “ Interrogavi  Ter- 
rain,” etc. 

86  A letter-writer  from  Mexico  states  that  at  the 
terrible  fight  of  Buena  Vista,  Mexican  women  were 
seen  hovering  near  the  field  of  death,  for  the  purpose 
of  giving  aid  and  succor  to  the  wounded.  One  poor 


I'  It 


S04  NOTES. 

woman  was  found  surrounded  by  the  maimed  and 
suffering  of  both  armies,  ministering  to  the  wants  of 
Americans  as  well  as  Mexicans,  with  impartial  ten- 
derness. 

87  Among  the  earliest  converts  to  the  doctrines  of 
Friends,  in  Scotland,  was  Barclay,  of  Ury,  an  old 
and  distinguished  soldier,  who  had  fought  under 
Gustavus  Adolphus,  in  Germany.  As  a Quaker,  he 
became  the  object  of  persecution  and  abuse  at  th.e 
hands  of  the  magistrates  and  the  populace.  None 
bore  the  indignities  of  the  mob  with  greater  patience 
and  nobleness  of  soul  than  this  once  proud  gentle- 
man and  soldier.  One  of  his  friends,  on  an  occasion 
of  uncommon  rudeness,  lamented  that  he  should  be 
treated  so  harshly  in  his  old  age,  who  had  been  so> 
honored  before.  “ I find  more  satisfaction,”  said 
Barclay,  “ as  well  as  honor,  in  being  thus  insulted 
for  my  religious  principles,  than  when,  a few  years 
ago,  it  was  usual  for  the  magistrates,  as  I passed  the 
city  of  Aberdeen,  to  meet  me  on  the  road  and  con- 
duct me  to  public  entertainment  in  their  hall,  and 
then  escort  me  out  again,  to  gain  my  favor.” 

88  Written  during  the  discussion  in  the  Legislature 
of  that  State  in  the  winter  of  1846-7,  of  a bill  for 
the  abolition  of  Slavery. 

89  “ Pure  religion,  and  undefiled,  before  God  and 

the  Father,  is  this:  To  visit  the  widows  and  the 

fatherless  in  their  affliction,  and  to  keep  himself 
unspotted  from  the  world.”  — James  i.  27. 


NOTES. 


5°5 


90  Suggested  by  a portrait  of  Raphael,  at  the  age 
of  fifteen,  in  the  possession  of  Thomas  Tracy,  of 
Newburyport. 

91  Died  at  Brooklyn  L.  I.,  on  the  1st  of  8th  month, 
1841,  aged  24  years. 

92  The  last  time  I saw  Dr.  Channing  was  in  the 
summer  of  1841,  when,  in  company  with  my  English 
friend,  Joseph  Sturge,  so  well  known  for  his  philan- 
thropic labors  and  liberal  political  opinions,  I visited 
him  at  his  summer  residence  on  Rhode  Island.  In 
recalling  the  impressions  of  that  visit,  it  can  scarcely 
be  necessary  to  say  that  I have  no  reference  to  the 
peculiar  religious  opinions  of  a man  whose  life, 
beautifully  and  truly  manifested  above  the  atmos- 
phere of  sect,  is  now  the  world’s  common  legacy. 

93  “ He  fell  a martyr  to  the  interests  of  his  colored 
brethren.  For  many  months  did  that  mighty  man  of 
God  apply  his  discriminating  and  gigantic  mind  to 
the  subject  of  Slavery  and  its  remedy;  and,  when 
his  soul  could  no  longer  contain  his  holy  indignation 
against  the  upholders  and  apologists  of  this  unrighte- 
ous system,  he  gave  vent  to  his  aching  heart,  and 
poured  fourth  his  clear  thoughts  and  holy  feelings  in 
such  deep  and  soul-entrancing  eloquence,  that  other 
men,  whom  he  would  fain  in  his  humble  modesty 
acknowledge  his  superiors,  sat  at  his  feet  and  looked 
up  as  children  to  a parent.”  — Correspondent  of  the 
“ Liberator ,”  16th  of  nth  month,  1833. 

94  “ O vine  of  Sibmah  ! I will  weep  for  thee  with 
the  weeping  of  Jazer  ! ” — Jeremiak  xlviii.  32. 


5°6 


NOTES. 


95  Daniel  Wheeler,  a minister  of  the  Society  of 
Friends,  and  who  had  labored  in  the  cause  of  his 
Divine  Master  in  ^Great  Britain,  Russia,  and  the 
Islands  of  the  Pacific,  died  in  New  York,  in  the 
spring  of  1840,  while  on  a religious  visit  to  this 
country. 

96  Sophia  Sturge,  sister  of  Joseph  Sturge,  of  Bir- 
mingham, the  President  of  the  British  Complete 
Suffrage  Association,  died  in.  the  6th  month,  18.45. 
She  was  the  colleague,  coumellor,  and  ever  ready 
helpmate  of  her  brother  in  >il  his  vast  designs  of 
beneficence.  The  Birmingham  Pilot  says  or  her: 
“ Never,  perhaps,  were  the  active  and  passive  virtues 
of  the  human  character  more  harmoniously  and 
beautifully  blended  than  in  this  excellent  woman.” 

97  The  rights  and  liberties  affirmed  by  Magna 
Charta  were  deemed  of  such  importance,  in  the 
13th  century,  that  the  Bishops,  twice  a year,  with 
tapers  burning,  and  in  their  pontifical  robes,  pro- 
nounced, in  the  presence  of  the  king  and  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  estates  of  England,  the  greater 
excommunication  against  the  infringer  of  that  instru- 
ment. The  imposing  ceremony  took  place  in  the 
great  Hall  of  Westminster.  A copy  of  the  curse,  as 
pronounced  in  1253,  declares  that,  “ By  the  authority 
of  Almighty  God,  and  the  blessed  Apostles  and 
Martyrs,  and  all  the  saints  in  heaven,  all  those  who 
violate  the  English  liberties,  and  secretly  or  openly, 
by  deed,  word,  or  counsel,  do  make  statutes,  or 
observe  them  being  made , against  said  liberties,  are 


NOTES, 


S°7 


accursed  and  sequestered  from  the  company  of  heaven 
and  the  sacraments  of  the  Holy  Church.’ * 

William  Penn,  in  his  admirable  political  pamphlet, 
“ England's  Present  Interest  Considered ,”  alluding 
to  the  curse  of  the  Charter-breakers,  says:  “I  am 
no  Roman  Catholic,  and  little  value  their  other 
curses  ; yet  I declare  I would  not  for  the  world  incur 
this  curse,  as  every  man  deservedly  doth,  who  offers 
violence  to  the  fundamental  freedom  thereby  repeated 
and  confirmed.” 


I R 


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